CORNELL 
 UNIVERSITY 
 - LIBRARY 
 
 GIVEN FOUNDATION BOOK FUND 
 
 In Memory of 
 JOHN LA PORTE GIVEN 
 
 CLASS OF 189^- : r , 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6011.O76H8 1921 
 
 Howards End, 
 
 3 1924 008 207 700 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tinis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924008207700 
 
HOWARDS END 
 
HOWARDS END 
 
 K M. Forster 
 
 "Only connect 
 
 
 ^^M. < 
 
 
 VINTAGE BOOKS ^ NEW YORK ^^ 
 A Hxyman of Rihdom House 
 
 '7(IJi, -1 "7^- ^\\V<^ 
 
 ..^^ 
 
 .sf 
 
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 nt 6 
 
 Copyright, 1921, iby. e. m. forster. AH rights reserved under 
 International and Fan-American Copyright Conventions. Pub- 
 lished in New York by Random House, Inc., and in Toronto, 
 Canada, by Random House of Canada, Limited. 
 
 Reprmted by krrdrigement with Alfred a. knopf, inc. First 
 Borzoi Edition published igzi. \ 
 
 "' Manufcititured m the United States of Amertps 
 
HOWARDS END 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 One may as well begin with Helen's letters to her sistei. 
 
 HowAKDS End, 
 Tuesday. 
 Dearest Meg, 
 
 It isn't going to be what we expected^ It is old 
 and little, and altogether delightful— red brick. We can 
 scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what wUl 
 happen when Paul {younger son) arrives tomorrow. 
 From hall you go right or left into dining-room or draw- 
 ins-Toom. Hall itself is practically a room. You open 
 another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in a 
 sort of tunnel to the first-floor. Three bed-rooms in a 
 row there, and three attics in, a row above. That isn't 
 dl the house redly, but it's dl that one notices-^nine 
 windows as you look up from the front garden. 
 
 Then there's a very big wych-elm— to the left as you ^ 
 look up — leaning a little over the house, and standing \ 
 on the boundary between the garden and meadow. I i 
 quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks- 
 no nastier than ordinary oaks— pear-trees, apple-trees, 
 and a vine. No silver birches, though. However, I must 
 get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to show 
 that it isn't the least what we expected. Why did we 
 settle that their house would be all gables and wggZes, 
 and their garden dl gamboge-coloured paths? I believe 
 simply because we associate them with expensive hotels 
 
^ E. M. FORSTER 
 
 —Mrs. Wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses down long 
 corridors, Mr. Wilcdx bullying porters, etc. We fenudes 
 are that unjust. 
 
 I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train later. 
 They are as angry as I am that you did not come too; 
 really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal dis- 
 ease every month. How could he have got hay fever in 
 London? and even if he could, it seems hard that you 
 should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell 
 him that Charles Wilcox {the son who is here) has hay 
 fever too, but he's brave, and gets quite cross when we 
 inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby 
 a power of good. But you won't agree, and I'd better 
 change the subject. 
 
 This long letter is because I'm writing before break- 
 fast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered 
 with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was 
 already in the garden. She evidently loves it. No won- 
 der she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the 
 large red poppies come out. Then she walked off the 
 lawn to the meadow, whose comer to the right I can 
 just see. Trail, trial, went her long dress over the sop- 
 fnng grass, and she came back with her hands full of the 
 l^ay that was cut yesterday— I suppose for rabbits or 
 something, as she kept on smelling it. The air here is 
 delicious. Later on I heard the noise of croquet bdUs, 
 and tboked out again, and it was Charles Wilcox prac- 
 tising; they are keen on cdl games. Presently he started 
 sneezing and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, 
 and it is Mr. Wilcox practising, and then, "d-tissue, a-tis- 
 sue": he has to stop too. Then Evie comes out, and 
 does some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is 
 tacked on to a greengage-tree— they put everything to 
 use— and then she says "a-tissue," and in she goes. 
 And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail, still smell- 
 ing hay and looking at the flowers.- 1 inflict all this on 
 you because once you said that life is sometimes life and 
 sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distin- 
 guish t'other from which, and up to now I have always 
 
Howards End c 
 
 put that down as "Meg's clever nonsense." But this 
 rrwming, it redly does seem not life but a play, and it 
 did amuse me enormously to watch the Ws. Now Mrs. 
 Wilcox has come in. 
 
 I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wil- 
 cox wore an [omission], and Evie [omission]. So it isn't 
 exactly a go-asryou-please place, and if you shut your 
 eyes it still seems the wig^y hotel that we expected. 
 Not if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. 
 There is a great hedge of them over the lawn— mag- 
 nificently tail, so that they fall down in garlands, and 
 nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see ducks 
 through it and a caw. These belong to the farm, which 
 is the only house near us. There goes the breakfast 
 gong. Much love. Modified love to Tibby. Love to Aunt 
 Juley; how good of her to come and keep you company, 
 but what a bore. Bum this. Will write again Thursday. 
 
 Helen 
 
 Howards End, 
 Friday. 
 Dearest Meg, ' ~ 
 
 I am having a glorious time. I like them edl. 
 Mrs. Wilcox, if quieter than in Germany, is sweeter 
 than ever, and I never saw anything like her steady un- 
 selfishness, and the best of it is that the others do not 
 take advantage of her. They are the very happiest, jol- 
 liest family that you can imagine. I do really feel that 
 we are making friends. The fun of it is that they think 
 me a noodle, 'and say so — at least, Mr. Wilcox does— 
 and when that happens, and one doesn't mind, it's a 
 pretty sure test, isn't it? He says the most horrid things 
 about women's suffrage so nicely, and when I said I be- 
 lieved in equality he just folded his arms and gave me 
 such a setting down as I've never had. Meg, shall we 
 ever learn to talk less? I never felt so ashamed of my- 
 self in my life. I couldn't point to a time when men had 
 been equal, nor even to a time when the wish to be 
 equal had made them happier in other ways. 1 couldn't 
 
6 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 say a word. I had just picked up the notion that 
 equality is good from, some book— probably from poetry, 
 qr you. Anyhow, ifs been knocked into pieces, and, like 
 dl people who <tre redly strong, Mr. Wilcox did it 
 without hurting me. On the other hand, I laugh at them 
 for catching hay fever. We live like fighting-cocks, and 
 Charles takes us out every day in the motor— a tomb 
 with trees in it, a hermit's house, a wonderful road that 
 was made by the Kings of Merda— tennis— a cricket 
 match— bridge— and at night we squeeze up in this 
 lovely house. The whole clan's here now— it's like a 
 rdibit warren. Evie is a dear. They want me to stop 
 over Sunday— I suppose it won't matter if I do. Mar- 
 vellous weather and the view's marvellous— views west- 
 ward to the higfi ground. Thank you for your letter. 
 Bum this. 
 
 Your affectiojiate 
 
 Helen 
 
 Howards End, 
 Sunday. 
 Dearest, dearest Meg,— I do not know what you 
 win say: Paul and I are in love— the younger son who 
 only came here Wednesday. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Margaret glanced at her sister's note and pushed it over 
 the breakfast-table to her aunt. There was a moment's 
 hush, and then the flood-gates opened. 
 
 "I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no more 
 than you do. We met— we only met the father and 
 mother abroad last spring. I know so little that I didn't 
 even know their son's name. It's all so—" She waved 
 her hand and laughed a little. 
 
 "In that case it is far too sudden." 
 
Howards End 7 
 
 "Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?" 
 
 "But, Margaret dear, I mean we mustn't be unprac- 
 tical now that we've come to facts. It is too sudden, 
 surely." 
 
 "Who knows!" 
 
 "But Margaret dear—" 
 
 "I'll go for her other letters," said Margaret. "No, I 
 won't, I'll finish my breakfast. In fact, T haven't them. 
 We met the Wilcoxes on an awful expedition that we 
 made from Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I had got 
 it into our heads that there was a grand old cathedral 
 at Speyer— the Archbishop of Speyer was one of the 
 seven electors— you know— 'Speyer, Maintz, and Koln.' 
 Those three sees once commanded the Rhine Valley 
 and got it the name of Priest Street." 
 
 "I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Mar- 
 garet." 
 
 I "The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first 
 sight it looked quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we 
 had seen the whole thing. The cathedral had been 
 ruined, absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch 
 left of the original structure. We wasted a whole day, 
 and came across the Wilcoxes as we were eating out 
 sandwiches in the public gardens. They too, poor 
 things, had been taken in — they were actually stopping 
 at Speyer— and they rather liked Helen insisting that 
 they must fly with us to Heidelberg. As a matter of 
 fact, they did come on next day. We all took some 
 drives together. They knew us well enough to ask 
 Helen to come and see them — at least, I was asked too, 
 but Tibby's illness prevented me, so last Monday she 
 went alone. That's all. You know as much as I do now. 
 It's a young man out the unknown. She was to have 
 come back Saturday, but put off till Monday, perhaps 
 on account of— I don't know." 
 
 She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a Lon- 
 don morning. Their house was in Wickham Place, 
 arid fairly quiet, for* a lofty promontory of buildings 
 separated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the 
 
8 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 sense of a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose 
 waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into 
 a profound silence while the waves without were still 
 beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats — 
 expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of con- 
 ciergies and palms — it fulfilled its purpose, and gained 
 for the older houses opposite a certain measure of 
 peace. These, too, would be swept away in time, and 
 another promontory would rise upon their site, as hu- 
 manity piled itself higher and higher on the -precious 
 soil of London. 
 
 Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her 
 nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hysteri- 
 cal, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. 
 Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of 
 Speyer^^ and declared that never, never should she be 
 so misguided as to visit it, and added of her own accord 
 that the principles of restoration were ill understood 
 in Germany. "The Germans," she said, "are too 
 thorough, and this is all very well sometimes, but at 
 other times it does not do." 
 
 "Exactly," said Margaret; "Germans are too 
 thorough." And her eyes began to shine. 
 
 "Of course I regard you Schlegels as English/' said 
 Mrs. Munt hastily— "English to the backbone." 
 
 Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. 
 
 "And that reminds me— Helen's letter—" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Aunt Juley, I am thinkirig all right about 
 Helen's letter. I know— I must go down and see her. 
 I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go 
 down." 
 
 "But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting 
 into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. "Margaret, 
 if I may interfere, don't be taken by surprise. What do 
 you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they 
 likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to 
 my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care 
 about Literature and Art? That is most important 
 
Howards End 9 
 
 when you come to think of it. Literatmte and Art. Most 
 important. How old would the son be? She says 
 'younger son.' Would he be in a position to marly? Is 
 he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather—" 
 
 "I gathered nothing." 
 
 They began to talk at once. 
 
 "Then in that case—" 
 
 "In that case I can make no plans, don't you see." 
 
 "On the contrary—" 
 
 "I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn't a 
 baby." 
 
 "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" 
 
 Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why 
 she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She 
 was not going to say: "I love my dear sister; I must be 
 near her at Qiis crisis of her life." The affections are 
 more reticent than the passions, and their expression 
 more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with 
 a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the 
 house-tops, but as she only loved a sister she used the 
 voiceless language of sympathy. 
 
 "I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, 
 "and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older 
 than your years. .But— you won't be offended?— 
 frankly I feel you are not up to this business. It requires 
 an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call iiie back 
 to Swanage." She spread out her plump arms. "I am all 
 at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose 
 name I torget instead of you." 
 
 "Aunt Juley"— she jumped up and kissed her— "I 
 must, must go to Howards End myself. You don't ex- 
 actly understand, though I can never thank you properly 
 for offering." 
 
 "I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with im- 
 mense confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interfer- 
 ence, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. 
 Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong 
 thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for 
 
10 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Helen's happiness you would offend the whole of these 
 Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions — 
 not that one minds offending them." 
 
 "I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen's writing 
 that she and a man are in love. There is no question to 
 ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn't worth 
 a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, 
 questions, plans, lines of action— no. Aunt Juley, no." 
 
 Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely bril- 
 .liant, but filled with something that took the place of 
 both qualities— something best described as a profound 
 vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that. she 
 encountered in her path through life. 
 
 "If Helen had written the same to me about a shop- 
 assistant or a penniless clerk — " 
 
 "Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut 
 the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters." 
 
 "—or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls 
 for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." 
 Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt 
 that she was not mad really and convinced observers 
 of aiiotlier type that she was not a barren theorist, she 
 added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should 
 want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must 
 say." 
 
 "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt; "and, indeed,^ 
 I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said 
 anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, 
 but most good people would think you mad. Imagine 
 how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a per- 
 son who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see 
 how things are and where they are likely to lead to." 
 
 Margaret was down on this. 
 
 "But you implied just now that the engagement must 
 be broken off." 
 
 "I think probably it must; but slowly." 
 
 "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes 
 lit up. "What's an engagement made of, do you sup- 
 
Howards End ii 
 
 pose? I think it's made of some hard stuflE, that may 
 snap, but can't break. It is diflFerent to the other ties of 
 life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. 
 They're different."- 
 
 "Exactly so. But won't you let me just run down to 
 Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I 
 will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly under- 
 stand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one 
 quiet look round will be enough for me." 
 
 Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and 
 then ran upstairs to see her brother. 
 
 He was not so well. 
 
 The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. 
 His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous mem- 
 brane, he informed her, was in a most unsatisfactory- 
 condition. The only thing that jnade life worth living 
 was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose 
 Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at 
 frequent intervals during the day. 
 
 It was rather difficult. Something must be done about 
 Helen. She must be assured that it is not a criminal 
 oftence to love at first sight. A telegram to this eflEect 
 would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each 
 moment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and 
 said that Tibby was quite bad. Might it really be best 
 to accept Aunt Juley's kind offer, and to send her down 
 to Howards End with a note? 
 
 Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing 
 rapidly from one decision to another. Running down- 
 stairs into the library, she cried: "Yes, I have changed 
 my mind; I do wish that you would go." 
 
 There was a train from King's Cross at eleven. At 
 half past ten Tibby, with rare self-eflEacement, fell 
 asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to tiie 
 station. 
 
 "You will remember. Aunt Juley, not to be drawn 
 into discussing the engagement. Give my letter to 
 Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep 
 
12 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 clear of the relatives. We have scarcely got their nain« 
 straight yet, and besides, that sort of thing, is so uncivi- 
 lized and wrong." 
 
 "So uncivilized?" queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that 
 she was losing the point of some brilliant remark. 
 
 "Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would 
 you please only talk the thing over with Helen." 
 
 "Only with Helen." 
 
 "Bepause— " But it was no moment to expound the 
 personal nature of love. Even Margaret shrank from it, 
 and contented herself with stroking her good aunt's 
 hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half po- 
 etically, on the journey that was about to begin from 
 King's Cross. 
 
 Like many others who have lived long in a great 
 capital, she had strong feelings about the various rail- 
 way termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the 
 unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure 
 and sunshine, to them, alasl we return. In Faddington 
 all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the 
 inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimit- 
 able Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; 
 Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians 
 realize this, as is natural; those of them who are so ub 
 fortunate as to serve as waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt 
 Bahnhof the Stazione d'ltalia, because by it they must 
 return to their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner who 
 does not endow his stations with some personality, and 
 extend to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear 
 and love. 
 
 To Margaret— I hope that it will not set the reader 
 against her— the station of King's Cross had always sug- 
 gested Infinity. Its very situation— withdrawn a little 
 behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras— implied a 
 comment on the materialism of life. Those two great 
 1 arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between 
 them an unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal 
 I adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would 
 certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language of 
 
Howar<k End is 
 
 prosperity. If you think this ridiculous, remember that 
 it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let 
 me hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for/ 
 the train; that Mrs. Munt, though she took a second- 
 class ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only two 
 seconds on the train, one smoking and the other babies 
 —one cannot be expected to travel with babies); and 
 that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was 
 confronted with the following telegram: 
 
 All over. Wish I had never written. T^ll no one.— 
 Helen. 
 
 But Aunt Juley was gone— gone irrevocably, and no 
 power on earth could stop her. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mis- 
 sion. Her nieces were independent young women, and 
 it was not often that she was able to help them. 
 Emily's daughters had never been quite like other girls. 
 TThey had been left motherless when Tibby was bom, 
 when Helen was five and Margaret herself but thirteen. 
 It was before the passing of the Deceased Wife's Sister 
 Bill, so Mrs. Munt could without impropriety offer to 
 go and keep house at Wickham Place. But her brother- 
 in-law, who was peculiar and a German, had referred 
 the question to Margaret, who with the crudity of youth 
 had aliswered: No, they could manage much better 
 alone. Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and 
 Mrs. Munt had repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no 
 longer, had been grateful and extremely nice, but the 
 substance of her answer had been the same. "I must 
 not interfere a third time," thought Mrs. Munt. How- 
 ever, of course she did. She learnt, to her horror, that 
 Margaret, now of age, was taking her money out of the 
 
14 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 old safe investments and putting it into Foreigi 
 Things, which always smash. Silence would have been 
 criminal. Her own fortune was invested in Homd^ Rails, 
 and most ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her. 
 "Then we should be together, dear." Margaret, out of 
 politeness, invested a few hundreds in the Nottingham 
 and Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did 
 admirably and the Nottingham and Derby declined 
 with the steady dignity of which only Home Rails 
 are capable, Mrs. Munt never ceased to rejoice, and to 
 say: "I did manage that, at all events. When the smash 
 comes poor Margaret will have a nest-egg to fall back 
 upon." This year Helen came of age, and exactly the 
 same thing happened in Helen's case; she also would 
 shift her money out of Consols, but she, too, almost 
 without being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it to 
 the Nottingham and Derby Railway. So far so good, 
 but in social matters their aunt had accomplished noth- 
 ing. Sooner or later the girls would enter on the -process 
 known as throwing themselves away, and if they had 
 delayed hitherto, it was only that they might throw 
 themselves more vehemently in the future. They saw 
 too many people at Wickham Place— unshaven musi- 
 cians, an actress even, German cousins (one knows 
 what foreigners are), acquaintances picked up at Con- 
 tinental hotels (one knows what they are too). It was 
 interesting, and down at Swanage.no one appreciated 
 culture more than Mrs. Munt; but it was dangerous, 
 and disaster was bound to come. How right she was, 
 and how lucky to be on the spot when the disaster 
 camel 
 
 The train sped northward, under innumerable tun- 
 nels. It was only an hour's journey, but Mrs. Munt had 
 to raise and lower the window again and again. She 
 passed through the. South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light 
 for a moment, and entered the North Welwyn Tunnel, 
 of tragic fame. She traversed the immense viaduct, 
 whose arches span untroubled meadows and the dreamy 
 
Howards End 15 
 
 flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks of politi- 
 cians. At times the Great North Road accompanied her, 
 more suggestive of infinity than any railway awakening, 
 after a nap of a hundred years, to such life as is con- 
 ferred by the stench of motor-cars, and to such culture 
 as is implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills. 
 To history, to tragedy, to the^ast, to the future, Mrs. 
 Munt remained equally indifferent; hers but to con- 
 centrate on the end of her journey, and to rescue poor 
 Helen from this dreadful mess. 
 
 The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of 
 the large villages that are strung so frequently along the 
 North Road, and that owe their size to the traffic of 
 coaching and pr&coaching days. Being near London, it 
 had not shared in the rural decay, and its long High 
 Street had budded out right and left into residential 
 estates. For about a mile a series of tiled and slated 
 houses passed before Mrs. Munt's inattentive eyes, a 
 series broken at one point by six Danish tumuli that 
 stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of 
 soldiers. Beyond these tumuli habitations thickened, 
 and the train came to a standstill in a tangle that was 
 almost a town. 
 
 The station, like the scenery, like Helen's letters, 
 struck an indeterminate note. Into which country will 
 it lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had island 
 platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort 
 exacted by business men. But it held hints of local life, 
 personal intercourse, as even Mrs"; Munt was to dis- 
 cover. 
 
 "I want a house," she confided to the ticket boy. "Its 
 name is Howards Lodge. Do you know where it is?" 
 
 "Mr. Wilcox!" the boy called. 
 
 A young man in front of them turned round. 
 
 "She's wanting Howards End." 
 
 There was nothing for it but to go forward, though 
 Mrs. Munt was too much agitated even to stare at the 
 stranger. But remembering that there were two 
 
l6 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 brothers, she had the sense to say to him: "Excuse me 
 asking, but are you the younger Mr. Wilcox or the 
 elder?" 
 
 "The younger. Can I do anything for you?" 
 
 "Oh, well—" She controlled herself with difficulty. 
 "Really. Are you? I—" She moved away from the ticket 
 boy and lowered her voice. "I am Miss Schlegel's aunt. 
 I ought to introduce myself, oughtn't I? My name is 
 Mrs. Munt." 
 
 She was conscious that he raised his cap and said 
 quite coolly: "Oh, rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with 
 us. Did you want to see her?" 
 
 "Possibly-" 
 
 "I'll call you a cab. No; wait a mo—" He thought. 
 "Our motor's here. I'll run you up in it." 
 
 "That is very kind—" 
 
 "Not at all, if you'll just wait till they bring out a 
 parcel from the office. This way." 
 
 "My niece is not with you by any chance?" 
 
 "No; I came over with my father. He has gone on 
 north in your train. You'll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. 
 You're coming up to lunch, I hope?" 
 
 "I should like to come up," said Mrs. Munt, not 
 committing herself to nourishment until she had 
 studied Helen's lover a little more. He seemed a gentie- 
 man, but had so rattled her round that her powers of 
 observation were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily. 
 To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp 
 depressions at the corners of his mouth, nor in the 
 rather box-like construction of his forehead. He was 
 dark, clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to com- 
 mand. 
 
 "In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may 
 be windy in front." 
 
 "In front if I may; then we can talk." 
 
 "But excuse me one moment— I can't think what 
 they're doing with that parcel." He strode into the 
 booking-office, and called with a new voice: "Hi! 
 hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all 
 
Howards End 17 
 
 day? Parcel for Wilcox, Howards End. Just look shaipl" 
 Emerging, he said in quieter tones: "This station's 
 abominably organized; if I had my way, the whole lot 
 of 'em should get the sack. May I help you in?" 
 
 "This is very good of you," said Mrs. Munt, as she 
 settled herself into a luxurious cavern of red leather, 
 and suffered her person to be padded with rugs and 
 shawls. She was more civil than she had intended, but 
 really this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was 
 a little afraid of him: his self-possession was extraordi- 
 nary. "Very good indeed," she repeated, adding: "It is 
 just what I should have wished." 
 
 "Very good of you to say so," he replied, with a 
 slight look of surprise, which, like most slight looks, 
 escaped Mrs. Munt's attention. "I was just tooling my 
 father over to catch the down train." 
 
 "You see, we heard from Helen this morning." 
 
 Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his en- 
 gine, and performing other actions with which this story 
 has no concern. The great car began to rock, and the 
 form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang 
 agreeably up and down among the red cushions. "The 
 mater will be very glad to see you," he mumbled. "Hi! 
 I say. Parcel for Howards End. Bring it out. Hi!" 
 
 A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one 
 hand and an entry book in the other. With the gather- 
 ing whir of the motor these ejaculations mingled: 
 
 "Sign, must I? Why the should I sign after all this 
 
 bother? Not even got a pencil on you? Remember, next 
 time I report you to the station-master. My time's of 
 value, though yours mayn't be. Here"— here being a 
 tip. 
 
 "Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt." 
 
 "Not at all, Mr. Wilcox." 
 
 "And do you object to going through the village? It 
 is rather a longer spin, but I have one or two commis- 
 sions." , 
 
 "I should love going through the village. Naturally I 
 am very anxious to talk things over with you." 
 
l8 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was dis- 
 obeying Margaret's instructions. Only disobejdng them 
 in the letter, surely. Margaret had only warned her 
 against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely 
 it was not "uncivilized" or "wrong" to discuss it with 
 the young man himself, since chance had thrown them 
 together. 
 
 A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by 
 her side, he put on gloves and spectacles, and off they 
 drove, the bearded porter— life is a mysterious business 
 —looking after them with admiration. 
 
 The wind was in their faces down the station road, 
 blowing the dust into Mrs. Munt's eyes. But as soon as 
 they turned into the Great North Road she opened fire. 
 "You can well imagine," she said, "that the news was 
 a great shock to us." 
 
 "What news?" 
 
 "Mr. Wilcox," she said frankly. "Margaret has told 
 me everything- everything. I have seen Helen's letter." 
 
 He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were 
 fixed on his work; he was travelling as quickly as he 
 dared down the High Street. But he inclined his head 
 in her direction, and said: "I beg your pardon; I didn't 
 catch." 
 
 "About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very ex- 
 ceptional person— I am sure you will let me say this, 
 feeling towards her as you do— indeed, all the Schlegels 
 are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference, but 
 it was a great shock." 
 
 They drew up opposite a draper's. Without replying^ 
 he turned round in his seat and contemplated the cloud 
 of dust that they had raised in their passage through 
 the village. It was settling again, but not all into the 
 road from which hp had taken it. Some of it had per- 
 colated through the open windows, some had whitened 
 the roses and gooseberries of the wayside gardens, while 
 a certain proportion had entered the lungs of the vil- 
 lagers. "I wonder when they'll learn wisdom and tar the 
 
Howards End 19 
 
 roads," was his comment. Then a man ran out of the 
 draper's with a roll of oilcloth, and off they went again. 
 
 "Margaret could not come herself, on account of 
 poor Tibby, so I am here to represent her and to have 
 a good talk." 
 
 "I'm sorry to be so dense," said the young man, 
 again drawing up outside a shop. "But I still haven't 
 quite understood." 
 
 "Helen, Mr. Wilcox— my niece and you." 
 
 He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, abso- 
 lutely bewildered. Horror smote her to the heart, for 
 even she began to suspect that they were at cross- 
 purposes, and that she had commenced her mission by 
 some hideous blunder. 
 
 "Miss Schlegel and myself?" he asked, compressing 
 his lips. 
 
 "I trust there has been no misunderstanding," 
 quavered Mrs. Munt. "Her letter certainly read that 
 way." 
 
 "What way?" 
 
 "That you and she—" She paused, then drooped her 
 eyelids. 
 
 "I think I catch your meaning," he said stickily. 
 "What an extraordinary mistake!" 
 
 "Thea you didn't the leasts" she stammered, get- 
 ting blood-red in the face, and wishing she had never 
 been bom. 
 
 "Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady." 
 There was a moment's silence, and then he caught his 
 breath and exploded with: "Oh, good Godl Don't tell 
 me it's some silliness of Paul's." 
 
 "But you are Paul." 
 
 "I'm not." 
 
 "Then why did you say so at the station?" 
 
 "I said nothing of the sort." 
 
 "I beg youi pardon, you did." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles." 
 
 "Younger" may mean son as opposed to father, 01 
 
JO E. M. F08STER 
 
 second brother as opposed to first. There is much to be 
 said for either view, and later on they said it. But they 
 had other questions before them now. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me that Paul—" 
 
 But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he 
 was talking to a porter, and, certain that he had de- 
 ceived her at the station, she too grew angry. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your niece—" 
 
 Mrs. Munt— such is human nature— determined that 
 she would champion the lovers. She was not going to 
 be bullied by a severe young man. "Yes, they care for 
 one another very much indeed," she said. "I dare say 
 they will tell you about it by and by. We heard this 
 morning." 
 
 And Charles clenched his fist and cried: "The idiot, 
 the idiot, the little fool!" 
 
 Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. "If that 
 is your attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk." 
 
 "I beg you will do no such thing. I'll take you up 
 this moment to the house. Let me tell you the thing's 
 impossible, and must be stopped." 
 
 Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when 
 she did, it was only to protect those whom she loved. 
 On this occasion she blazed out. "I quite agree, sir. The 
 thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop it. My 
 niece is a very exceptional person, and I am not inclined 
 to sit still while~she throws herself away on those who 
 will not appreciate her." 
 
 Charles worked his jaws. 
 
 "Considering she has only known your brother since 
 Wednesday, and only met your father and mother at a 
 stray hotel—" 
 
 "Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman 
 will overhear." , 
 
 "Esprit de classe"— if one may coin the phrase— was 
 strong in Mrs. Munt. She sat quivering while a member 
 of the lower orders deposited a metal funnel, a sauc& 
 pan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth. 
 
 "Right behind?" 
 
Howards End 21 
 
 "Yes, sir." And the lower orders vanished in a cloud 
 of dust. 
 
 "I warn you: Paul hasn't a penny; it's useless." 
 
 "No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The 
 warning is all the other way. My niece has been very 
 foolish, and I shall give her a good scolding and take 
 her back to London with me." 
 
 "He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He couldn't 
 think of manying for years, and when he does it must 
 be a woman who can stand the climate, and is in 
 other ways— Why hasn't he told us? Of course he's 
 ashamed. He knows he's been a fool. And so he has— a 
 damned fool." 
 
 She grew furious. 
 
 "Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publish- 
 ing the news." 
 
 "If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark I'd 
 box your ears. You're not fit to clean my niece's boots, 
 to sit in the same room with her, and you dare— you 
 actually dare— I decline to argue with such a person." 
 
 "All I know is, she's spread the thing and he hasn't^ 
 and my father's away and I—" 
 
 "And all that I know is—" 
 
 "Might I finish my sentence, please?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Charles clenched his teeth and sent the nictv^t swerv- 
 ing all over the lane. 
 
 She screamed. 
 
 So they played the game of Capping Families, a round 
 of which is always played when love would unite two 
 members of our race. But they played it with unusual 
 vigour, stating in so many words that Schlegels wer« 
 better than Wilcoxes, _Wilcoxes better than Schlegels. 
 They flung decency aside. The man was young, the 
 woman deeply stined; in both a vein of coarseness was 
 latent. Their quarrel was no more surprising than are 
 most quarrels — inevitable at the time, incredible after- 
 wards. But it was more than usually futile. A few min- 
 utes, and they were enlightened. The motor drew up 
 
a E. M. FORSTER 
 
 at Howards End, and Helen, looking very pale, ran out 
 to meet her aunt. 
 
 "Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from^ Mar- 
 garet; I— I meant to stop your coming. It isn't—it's 
 over." 
 
 The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst 
 into tearsr 
 
 "Aunt Juley dear, don't. Don't let them know I've 
 been so silly. It wasn't anything. Do bear up for my 
 sake." 
 
 "Paul," cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloyes off. 
 
 "Don't let them know. They are never to know." 
 
 "Oh, my darling Helen-" 
 , "Paul! Paul!" 
 
 A very young man came out of the house. 
 
 "Paul, is there any truth in this?" 
 
 "I didn't-I don't-" 
 
 "Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did 
 or didn't Miss Schlegel— " 
 
 "Charles dear," said a voice from the garden. 
 "Charles, dear Charles, one doesn't ask plain questions. 
 There aren't such things." 
 
 They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox. 
 
 She approached just as Helen's letter had described 
 her, trailing noiselessly over the lawn, and there was 
 actually a wisp of hay in her hands. She seemed to be- 
 long not to the young people and their motor, but to 
 the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One 
 knew that she worshipped the past, and that the instinc- 
 tive wisdom the past can alone bestow had descended 
 upon her— that wisdom to which we give the clumsy 
 name of aristocracy. High-bom she might not be. But 
 assuredly she cared about her ancestors, and let them 
 help her. When she saw Charles angry, Paul frightened, 
 and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say: 
 "Separate those human beings who will hurt each other 
 most. The rest can wait." So she did not ask questions. 
 Still less did she pretend that nothing had happened, 
 as a competent society hostess would have done. She 
 
Howards End a 3 
 
 said: "Miss Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to. 
 your room or to my room, Whichever you think best. 
 Paul, do find Evie, and tell her lunch for six, but I'm 
 not sure whether we shall all be downstairs for it." And 
 when they had obeyed her, she turned to her elder son, 
 who still stood in the throbbing stinking car, and 
 smiled at him with tenderness, and without a word, 
 turned away from him towards her flowers. 
 
 "Mother," he called, "are you aware that Paul has 
 been playing the tool again?" 
 
 "It's all right, dear. They have broken off the engage- 
 ment." 
 
 "Engagement—!" 
 
 "They do not love any longer, it you prefer it put 
 that way," said Mrs. Wilcox, stooping down to smell a 
 rose. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Helen and her aunt returned to Wickham Plao^ in a 
 state of collapse, and for a little time Margaret had three 
 invalids on her hands. Mrs. Munt soon recovered. She 
 possessed to a remarkable degree the power of distort- 
 ing the past, and before many days were over she had 
 forgotten the part played by her own imprudence in the 
 catastrophe. Even at the crisis she had cried: "Thank 
 goodness, poor Margaret is saved this!" which during 
 the journey to London evolved into: "It had to be gone 
 through by someone," which in its turn ripened into 
 the permanent form of: "The pne time I really did help 
 Emily's girls was over the Wilcox business." But Helen 
 was a more serious patient. New ideas had burst upon 
 her like a thunder clap, and by them and by her rever- 
 berations she had been stunned. 
 
 The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with 
 an individual, but with a family. 
 
24 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Before Paul arrived she had, as it were, been tuned 
 up into his key. The energy of the Wilcoxes had fasci- 
 nated her, had created new images of beauty in her 
 responsive mind. To be all day with them in the open 
 air, to sleep at night under their roof, had seemed the 
 supreme joy of life, and had led to that abandonment 
 of personality that is a possible prelude to love. She had 
 liked giving in to Mr. Wilcox, or Evie, or Charles; she 
 had liked being told that her notions of life were shel- 
 tered or academic; that Equality was nonsense, Votes 
 for Women nonsense. Socialism nonsense, Art and Lit- 
 erature, except when conducive to strengthening the 
 character, nonsense. One by one the Schlegel fetiches 
 had been overthrown, and, though professing to defeiid 
 them, she had rejoiced. When Mr. Wilcox said that one 
 sound man of business did more good to the world than 
 a dozen of your social reformers, she had swallowed the 
 curious assertion without a gasp, and had leant back 
 luxuriously among the cushions of his motor-car. When 
 Charles said: "Why be so polite to servants? They don't 
 understand it," she had not given the Schlegel retort of: 
 "If they don't understand it, I do." No; she had vowed 
 to be less polite to servants in the future. "I am 
 swathed in cant," she thought, "and it is good for me 
 to be stripped of it." And all that she thought or did or 
 breathed was a quiet preparation for Paul. Paul was 
 inevitable. Charles was taken up with another girl, Mr. 
 Wilcox was so old, Evie so young, Mrs. Wilcox so dif- 
 ferent. Round the absent brother she began to throw 
 the halo of Romancfe, to irradiate him with all the splen- 
 dour of those happy days, to feel that in him she should 
 draw nearest to the robust ideal. He and she were about 
 the same age, Evie said. Most people thought Paul hand- 
 somer than his brother. He was certainly a better shot, 
 though not so good at golf. And when Paul appeared, 
 flushed with the triumph of getting through an examina- 
 tion, and ready to flirt with any pretty girl, Helen met 
 him halfway, or more than halfway, and turned towards 
 him on the Sunday evening. 
 
Howards End 2tj 
 
 He had been talking of his approaching exile in Nige- 
 ria, and he should have continued to talk of it, and 
 allowed their guest to recover. But the heave of her 
 bosom flattered him. Passion was possible, and he be- 
 came passionate. Deep down in him something whis- 
 pered: "This girl would let you kiss her; you might not 
 have' such a chance again." 
 
 That was "how it happened," or, rather, how Helen 
 described it to her sister, using words even more un- 
 sympathetic than my own. But the poetry of that kiss, 
 the wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for 
 hours after it— who can describe that? It is so easy for 
 an Englishman to sneer at these chance collisions of 
 human beings. To the insular cynic and the insular 
 moralist they offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy 
 to talk of "passing emotion," and how to forget how 
 vivid the emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to 
 sneer, to forget, is at root a good one. We recognize that 
 emotion is not enough, and that men and women are 
 personalities capable of sustained* relations, not mere 
 opportunities for an electrical discharge. Yet we rate 
 the impulse too highly. We do not admit that by col- 
 lisions of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may-be 
 shaken open. To Helen, at all events, her life was to 
 bring nothing more intense than the embrace of this 
 boy who played no part in it. He had drawn her out of 
 the house, where there was danger of surprise and light; 
 he had led her by a path he knew, until they stood un- 
 der the column of the vast wych-elm. A man in the dark- 
 ness, he had whispered: "I love you" when she was 
 desiring love. In time his slender personality faded, the 
 scene that he had evoked endured. In all the variable 
 years that followed she never saw the like of it again. 
 
 "I understand," said Margaret— "at least, I under- 
 stand as much as ever is understood of these things. Tell 
 me now what happened on the Monday morning." 
 
 "It was over at once." 
 
 "How, Helen?" 
 
 "1 was still happy while I dressed, but as I came 
 
26 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 downstaiis I got nervous, and when I went into the 
 dining-room I knew it was no good. There was Evie— I 
 can't explain— managing the tea-urn, and Mr. Wilcox 
 reading the Times." 
 
 "Was Paul there?" 
 
 "Yes; and Charles was talking to him about Stocks 
 and Shares, and he looked frightened." 
 
 By slight indications the sisters could convey much 
 to each other. Margaret saw horror latent in the scene, 
 and Helen's next remark did not surprise her. 
 
 "Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened 
 it is too awful. It is all right for us to be frightened, or 
 for men of another sort— Father, for instance; but for 
 men like that! When I saw all the others so placid, and 
 Paul mad with terror in case I said the wrong thing, I 
 felt for a moment that the whole Wilcox family was a 
 fraud, just a wall of newspapers and motor-cars and golf- 
 clubs, and that if it fell I should find nothing behind it 
 but panic and emptiness." 
 
 "I don't think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being 
 genuine people, particularly the wife." 
 
 "No, I don't really think that. But Paul was so broad- 
 shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things made it 
 worse, and I knew that it would never do— never. I said 
 to him after breakfast, when the others were practising 
 strokes: "We rather lost our heads,' and he looked bet- 
 ter at once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a 
 speech about having no money to marry on, but it hurt 
 him to make it, and I stopped him. Then he said: 'I 
 must beg your pardon over this. Miss Schlegel; I can't 
 think what came over me last night.' And I said: 'Nor 
 what over me; never mind.' And then we parted— at 
 least, until I remembered that I had written straight off 
 to tell you the night before, and that frightened him 
 again. I asked him to send a telegram for me, for he 
 knew you would be coming or something; and he tried 
 to get hold of the motor, but Charles and Mr. Wilcox 
 wanted it to go to the station; and Charles offered to 
 send the telegram for me, and then I had to say that 
 
Hofwards End 27 
 
 the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said 
 Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out sev- 
 eral times, he always said people would suspect some- 
 thing: He took it himself at last, pretending that he 
 must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one 
 thing and the other, it was not handed in at the Post 
 Office until too late. It was the most tenible morning. 
 Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket 
 averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I 
 stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his 
 father started for the station, and then came your tele- 
 gram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that 
 train, and Paul— oh, rather horrible— said that I. had 
 muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." 
 
 "Knew what?" 
 
 "Everything; though we neither of us told hei a word, 
 and had known all along, I thitik." 
 
 "Oh, she must have overheard you." 
 
 "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When 
 Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other 
 names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and 
 made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a 
 disgusting business. To think that—" She sighed. 
 
 'To think that because you and a young man meet 
 foi a moment, there must be all these telegrams and 
 anger," supplied Margaret. 
 
 Helen nodded. 
 
 "I've often thought about it, Helen. It's one of the 
 most interesting things in the world. The truth is that 
 there is a great outer life that you and I have never 
 touched— a life in which telegranis and anger count. 
 Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not su- 
 preme there. There love means marriage settlements, 
 death, death duties. So far I'm clear. But here my dif- 
 ficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid, often 
 seems the real one— there's grit in it. It does breed 
 character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the 
 end?" 
 
 "Oh, Meg, that's what I felt, only not so clearly, when 
 
28 E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have 
 their hands on all the ropes." 
 
 "Don't you feel it now?" 
 
 "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. 
 "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back 
 upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, 
 for ever and ever." 
 
 "Amenl" 
 
 So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leav- 
 ing behind it memories of sweetness and horror that 
 mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen 
 had commended. They talked to each other and to 
 other people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham 
 Place with those whom they liked or could befriend. 
 They even attended public meetings. In their own 
 fashion they cared deeply about politics, though not as 
 politicians would have us care; they desired that public 
 life should mirror whatever is good in the life wiiliin. 
 Temperance, tolerance, and sexual equality were intel- 
 I^ljle cries to them; whereas they did not follow our 
 Forward Policy in Thibet with the keen attention that 
 it merits, and would at times dismiss the whole British 
 Empire with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of 
 them are the shows of history erected: die world would 
 be a grey, bloodless place were it entirely composed of 
 "Miss Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps 
 they shine out in it like stars. 
 
 A word on their origin. They were not "English to 
 the backbone," as their aunt had piously asserted. But, 
 on the other hand, they were not "Germans of the 
 dreadful sort." Their father had belonged to a type that 
 was more prominent in Germany fifty years ago than 
 now. He vras not the aggressive German, so dear to tiie 
 English journalist,, nor the domestic German, so dear 
 to the English wit. If one classed him at all, it would be 
 as the countryman of Hegel and Kant, as the idealist, 
 inclined to be dreamy, whose Imperialism was the Im- 
 perialism of the air. Not that his life had been inactive. 
 He had fought like blazes against Denmark, Austria, 
 
Howards End 29 
 
 France. But he had fought without visuahzing the re- 
 sults of victory. A hint of the truth broke on him after 
 Sedan, when he saw the dyed moustaches of Napoleon 
 going grey; another when he entered Paris and saw the 
 smashed windows of the Tuileries. Peace came— it was 
 all very immense, one had turned into an Empire— but 
 he knew that some quality had vanished for which not 
 all Alsace-Lorraine could compensate him. Germany 
 a commercial Power, Germany a naval Power, Germany 
 with colonies here and a Forward Policy there, and 
 legitimate aspirations in the other place, might appeal 
 to others, and be fitly served by them; for his own part, 
 he abstained from the fruits of victory, and naturalized 
 himself in England. The more earnest members of his 
 famOy never forgave him, and knew that his children, 
 though scarcely English of the dreadful sort, would 
 never be German to the backbone. He had obtained 
 work in one of our provincial universities, and there 
 married Poor Emily (or Die Englanderin as the case 
 may be), and as she had money, they proceeded to 
 London, and came to know a good many people. But 
 his gaze was always fixed beyond the sea. It was his hope! 
 
 ~^ that the clouds of materialism obscuring the Fatherland \ 
 would part in time, and the mild intellectual light re-i 
 emerge. "Do you imply that we Germans are stupid, I 
 Uncle Ernst?" exclaimed a haughty and magnificent- 
 nephew. Uncle Ernst replied: "To my mind. You use 
 the intellect, but you no longer care about it. That I call 
 stupidity." As the haughty nephew did not follow, he 
 continued: "You only care about the things thaf you 
 can use, and therefore arrange them in the following 
 order: Money, supremely useful; intellect, rather use- 
 ful; imagination, of no use at all. No"— for the other 
 had protested^"your Pan-Germanism is no more im- 
 aginative than is our Imperialism over here. It is the 
 
 , vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled by bigness, to think 
 that a thousand square miles are a thousand times more 
 wonderful than one square mile, and. that a million 
 square miles are almost the same as heaven. That is not 
 
JO E. M. FORSTER 
 
 imagination. No, it kills it. When their poets over here 
 try to celebrate bigness they are dead at once, and natur- 
 ally. Your poets too are dying, your philosophers, your 
 musicians, to whom Europe has listened for two hun- 
 dred years. Gone. Gone with the little courts that nur- 
 tured them— gone with Esterhaz and Weimar. What? 
 What's that? Your universities? Oh, yes, you have 
 learned men, who collect more facts than do the learned 
 men of England. They collect facts, and facts, and em- 
 pires of facts. But which of them will rekindle the light 
 within?" 
 
 To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty 
 nephew's knee. 
 
 It was a unique education for the little girls. The 
 haughty nephew would be at Wickham Place one day, 
 bringing with him an even haughtier wife, both con- 
 vinced that Germany was appointed by God to govern 
 the world. Aunt Juley would come the next day, con- 
 vinced that Great Britain had been appointed to the 
 same post by the same authority. Were both these loud- 
 voiced parties right? On one occasion they had met, 
 and Margaret with clasped hands had implored them 
 to argue the subject out in her presence. Whereat they 
 blushed and began to talk about the weather. "Papa," 
 she cried— she was a most oflEensive child — "why will 
 they not discuss this most clear question?" Her father, 
 surveying the parties grimly, replied that he did not 
 know. Putting her head on one side, Margaret then 
 remarked: "To me one of two things is very clear; either 
 God does not know his own mind about England and 
 Germany, or else these do not know the mind of God." 
 A hateful little girl, but at thirteen she had grasped a 
 dilemma that most people travel through life without 
 perceiving. Her brain darted up and down; it grew 
 pliant and strong. Her conclusion was that any human 
 being lies nearer to the unseen than any organization 
 and from this she never varied. 
 
 Helen advanced along the same lines, though with a 
 more inesponsible tread. In character she resembled her 
 
Howards End 31 
 
 sister, but she was pretty, and so apt to have a more 
 amusing time. People gathered round her more readily, 
 especially when they were new acquaintances, and she 
 did enjoy a little homage very much. When their father 
 died and they ruled alone at Wickham Place, she often 
 absorbed the whole of the company, while Margaret — 
 both were tremendous talkers— fell flat. Neither sister 
 bothered about this. Helen never apologized afterwards, 
 Margaret did not feel the slightest rancour. But looks 
 have their influence upon character. The sisters were 
 alike as little girls, but at the time of the Wilcox episode 
 their methods were beginning to diverge; the younger 
 was rather apt to entice people, and, in enticing them, 
 to be herself enticed; the elder went straight ahead, and 
 accepted an occasional failure as part of the gamcw 
 
 Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now 
 an intelligent man of sixteen, but dyspeptic and difficile. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 It will be generally admitted that Beethoven's Fifth 
 Symphony is the most sublime noise that has ever pene- 
 trated into the ear of man. All sorts and conditions are 
 satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs. Munt, and tap 
 surreptitiously when the tunes come— of course, not so 
 as to disturb the others; or like Helen, who can see 
 heroes and shipwrecks in the music's flood; or like Mar- 
 garet, who can only see the music; or like Tibby, who is 
 profoundly versed in counterpoint, and holds the full 
 score ogeji on his knee; or like their cousin, Fraulein 
 l^oseBach, who remembers all the time that Beethoven 
 is "echt Deutsch"; or like Fraulein Mosebach's young 
 man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein Mose- 
 bach: in any case, the passion of your life becomes more 
 vivid, and you are bound to admit that such a noise is 
 cheap at two shillings. It is cheap, even if you hear it in 
 
32 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 the Queen's Hall, dreariest music-room in London, 
 though not as dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Man- 
 chester; and even if you sit on the extreme left of that 
 hall, so that the brass bumps at you before the rest of 
 the orchestra arrives, it is still cheap. 
 
 "Who is Margaret talking to?" said Mrs. Munt, at 
 the conclusion of the first movement. She was again in 
 London on a visit to Wickham Place. 
 
 Helen looked dovm the long line of their party and 
 said that she did not know. 
 
 "Would it be some young man or other whom she 
 takes an interest in?" 
 
 "I expect so," Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, 
 and she could not enter into the distinction that divides 
 young men whom one takes an interest in from young 
 men whom one knows. 
 
 "You girls are so wonderful in always having— Oh 
 dear! one mustn't talk." 
 
 For the Andante had begun— very beautiful, but 
 bearing a family likeness to all the other beautiful An- 
 dantes that Beethoven had written, and, to Helen's 
 mind, rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks 
 of the first movement from the heroes and goblins of 
 the third. She heard the tune through once, and then 
 her attention wandered, and she gazed at the audience 
 or the organ, or the architecture. Much did she censure 
 the attenuated Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the 
 Queen's Hall, inclining each to each with vapid gesture, 
 and clad in sallow pantaloons, on which the October 
 sunlight struck. "How awful to marry a man like those 
 Cupids!" thought Helen. Here Beethoven started 
 decorating his tune, so she heard him, througji once 
 more, and then she smiled at her cousirh^^da. But 
 Frieck, listening to Classical Music, could not respond 
 Herr Liesecke, too, looked as if wild horses could not 
 make him inattentive; there were lines across his fore- 
 head, his lips were parted, his pince-nez at right angles 
 to his nose, and he had laid a thick, white hand on 
 either knee. And next to her was Aunt Juley, so British, 
 
Howards End 33 
 
 and wanting to tap. How interesting that row of people 
 wasi What diverse influences had gone to the making! 
 Here Beethoven, after humming and hawing with great 
 sweetness, said "Heigho," and the Andante came to an 
 end. Applause, and a round of "wunderschoning" and 
 "prachtvolleying" from the German contingent. Mar- 
 garet started talking to her new young man; Helen said 
 to her aunt: "Now comes the wonderful movement: 
 first of all the goblins, and then a trio of elephants 
 dancing"; and Tibby implored the company generally 
 to look out for the transitional passage on the drum. 
 "On the what, dear?" 
 "On the drum. Aunt Juley." 
 
 "No; look out for the part where you think you have 
 done with the goblins and they come back," breathed 
 1 Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking quietly 
 over ihe universe, from end to end. Others followed 
 him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that 
 made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed 
 .in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or 
 heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants 
 dancing, they returned and made the observation for 
 the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, 
 once at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen 
 the reliable walls of yduth collapse. Panic and empti- 
 ness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right. 
 
 Her brother raised his finger: it was the transitional 
 passage on the drum. 
 
 For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took 
 hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted. 
 He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and 
 they began to walk in major key instead of in a minor, 
 and then— he blew with his mouth and they were scat- 
 tered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demi-gods contend- 
 ing with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on 
 the field of battle, magnificent victory, magnificent 
 death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even 
 stretched oiit her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any 
 fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and 
 
34 £■ M. FORSTER 
 
 conquered would alike be applauded by the angels of 
 the utmost stars. 
 
 And the gobhns— they had not really been there at 
 all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and 
 unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel 
 them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or President Roosevelt, 
 would say yes. Beethoven knew better. The gobhns 
 really had been there. They might return— and they 
 did. It was as if the splendour of life might boil over 
 and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one 
 heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with 
 increased malignity, walked quietly over the universe 
 from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and empti- 
 ness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might &11. 
 
 Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He 
 built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for 
 the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. 
 He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, 
 the youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, 
 amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth 
 Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. 
 They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is 
 why one can tmst Beethoven when he says other things. 
 
 Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She 
 desired to be alone. The music summed up to her all 
 that had happened or could happen in her career. She 
 read it as a tangible statement, which could never be 
 superseded. The notes meant this and that to her, and 
 they could have no other meaning, and life could have 
 no other meaning. She pushed right out of the building, 
 and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing 
 the autumnal air, and then she strolled home. 
 
 "Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?" 
 
 "Oh yes.'" 
 
 "She is always going away in the middle of a pro- 
 gramme," said Tibby. 
 
 "The music has evidently moved her deeply," said 
 Fraulein Mosebach. 
 
 "Excuse rae." said Margaret's young man, who had 
 
Howards End 35 
 
 for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady 
 has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella." 
 
 "Oh, good gracious me!— I atn so sorry. Tibby, run 
 after Helen." 
 
 "I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do." 
 
 "Tibby love, you must go." 
 
 "It isn't of any consequence," said the young man, 
 in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. 
 
 "But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" 
 
 Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person 
 on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped 
 up the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited 
 his full score in safety, it was "too late" to go after 
 flelen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one 
 could not move during their performance. 
 
 "My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret. 
 
 "Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice was 
 dead and cold. 
 
 "If you would give me your address—" 
 
 "Oh, not at all, not at all"; and he wrapped his great- 
 coat over his knees. 
 
 Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Mar- 
 garet's ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, 
 had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of 
 stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man 
 thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing 
 the confidence trick on him, and that if he gave his ad- 
 dress they would break into his rooms some midnight 
 or other and steal his walking-stick too. Most ladies 
 would have laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it 
 gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trust people is a 
 luxury in which only the wealthy can mdulge; the poor 
 cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted himself 
 out, she gave him her card and said: "That is where 
 we live; if you preferred, you could call for the umbrella 
 ?fter the concert, but I didn't like to trouble you when 
 it has all been our fault." 
 
 His face brightaied a little when he saw that Wick- 
 ham Place was Wi It was sad to see him conoded with 
 
36 E. M. FORSTEB 
 
 suspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, in case 
 these well-dressed people were honest after all. She took 
 it as a good sign that he said to her: "It's a fine pro- 
 gramme this afternoon, is it not?" for this was the re- 
 mark with which he had originally opened, before the 
 umbrella intervened. 
 
 "The Beethoven's fine," said Margaret, who was not 
 a female of the encouraging type. "I don't like the 
 Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn "that came first 
 ^and ugh! I don't like this Elgar that's coming." 
 
 "What, what?" called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. 
 "The Pomp and Circumstance will not be fine?" 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!" cried her aunt. 
 "Here have I been persuading Herr Liesecke to stop 
 for Pomp and Circumstance, and you are undoing all 
 my work. I am so anxious for him to hear what we are 
 doing in music. Oh, you mustn't run down our English 
 composers, Margaret." 
 
 "For my part, I have heard the composition at Stet- 
 tin," said Fraulein Mosebach. "On two occasions. It 
 is dramatic, a little." 
 
 "Frieda, ypu despise English music. You know you 
 do. And English art. And English literature, except 
 Shakespeare and he's a German. Very well, Frieda, you 
 may go." 
 
 "The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved 
 by a common impulse, they rose to their feet and fled 
 from Pomp and Circumstance. 
 
 "We have this call to pay in Finsbury Circus, it is 
 true," said Herr Liesecke, as he edged past her and 
 reached the gangway just as the music started. 
 
 "Margaret—" loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. "Mar- 
 garet, Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her beauti- 
 ful little bag behind hef on the seat." 
 
 Sure enough, there was Frieda's reticule, containing 
 her address book, her pocket dictionary, her map of 
 London, and her money. 
 
 "Oh, what a bother— what a family we are' Fr— 
 Frieda!" 
 
Howards End yj 
 
 "Hush!" said all those who thought the music fine. 
 
 "But it's the number they want in Finsbury Circus—" 
 
 "Might I— couldn't I—" said the suspicious young 
 man, and got veiy red. 
 
 "Oh, I would be so grateful." 
 
 He took the bag — money clinking inside it^and 
 slipped up the gangway with it. He was just in time to 
 catch them at fiie swing-door, and he received a pretty 
 smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her 
 cavalier. He returned to his seat up-sides with the world. 
 The trust that they had reposed in him was trivial, but 
 he felt that it cancelled his mistrust for them, and that 
 probably he would not be "had" over his umbrella. This 
 young man had been "had" in the past— badly, perhaps 
 overwhelmingly — and now most of his energies went 
 in defending himself against the unknown. But this af- 
 teraoon^perhaps on account of music— he perceived 
 that one must slack off occasionally, or what is the good 
 of being alive? Wickham Place, W., though a risk, was as 
 safe as most things, and he would risk it. 
 
 So when the concert was over and Margaret said: 
 "Wc live quite near; I am going there now. Could you 
 walk around with me, and we'll find your umbrella?" 
 he said: "Thank you," peaceably, and followed her out 
 of the Queen's Hall. She wished that he was not so 
 anxious to hand'^a lady downstairs, or to carry a lady's 
 programme for her— his class was near enough her own 
 for its manners to vex her. But she found him inter- 
 esting on the whole— everyone interested the Schle- 
 gels, on the whole, at that time— and while her lips 
 talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him to 
 tea. 
 
 "How tired one gets after music!" she began. 
 
 'T)o you find the atmosphere of Queen's Hall op- 
 pressive?" 
 
 "Yes, horribly." 
 
 "But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is 
 even more oppressive." 
 
 "Do you go there much?" 
 
38 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "When my work permits, I attend the'gallery for the 
 Royal Opera." 
 
 Helen would have exclaimed: "So do I. I love the 
 gallery," and thus have endeared herself to the young 
 man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had 
 an almost morbid horror of "drawing people out," of 
 "inaking things go." She had been to the gallery at 
 Covent Garden, but she did not "attend" it, prefer- 
 ring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. 
 So she made no reply. 
 
 "This year I have been three times— to Faust, Tosca, 
 and—" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better 
 not dsk the word. 
 
 Margaret disliked Toscd and Faust. And so, for one 
 reason and another, they walked on in silence, chapier- 
 ofled by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into 
 difficulties with her nephew. 
 
 "I do in a way remember the passage, Tibby, but 
 when every instrument is so beautiful, it is^ difficult to 
 pick out one thing rather than another. I am sure that 
 you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not 
 a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that 
 our German friends would have sta:yed till it finished." 
 
 "But surely you haven't forgotten the drum steadily 
 beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby's voice. 
 "No one could. It's unmistakable." 
 
 "A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of 
 course, I do not go in for being musical," she added, 
 the shot failing. "I only care for music— a very dif- 
 jferent thing. But still I will say this for myself— I do 
 'know when I like a thing and when I don't. Some peo- 
 ple are the same about pictures.' They can go into a 
 picture gallery— Miss Conder can— and say straight off 
 what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do that. 
 But music is so different to pictures, to my mind. When 
 it comes to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure 
 you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased by everything. 
 There was a thing— something about a faun in French 
 
Howards End 39 
 
 —which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought 
 it most tinlding and superficial, and said so, and I held 
 to my opinion too." 
 
 "Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think 
 music is so di£Ferent to pictures?" 
 
 "I — I should have thought so, kind of," he said. 
 
 "So should I. Now, my sister declares they're just the 
 same. We have great arguments over it. She says I'm 
 dense; I say she's sloppy." Getting under way, she cried: 
 "Now, doesn't it seem absurd to you? What is the good 
 of the arts if they're interchangeable? What is the good 
 of the ear if it tells you the same as the eye? Helen's 
 one aim is to translate tunes into the language of paint- 
 ing, and pictures into the language of music. It's very 
 ingenious, and she says several pretty things in the 
 process, but what's gained, I'd like to know? Oh, it's 
 all rubbish, radically false. If Monet's really Debussy, 
 and Debussy's really Monet, neither gentleman is worth 
 his salt — that's my opinion." 
 
 Evidently these sisters quarrelled. 
 
 "Now, this very symphony that we've just been 
 having — she won't let it alone. She labels it with mean- 
 ings from start to finish; turns it into literature. I won- 
 der if the day will ever return when music will be 
 treated as music. Yet I don't know. There's my brother 
 —behind us. He treats music as music, and oh, my good- 
 ness! he makes me angrier than anyone, simply furious. 
 With him I daren't even argue." 
 
 An unhappy family, it talented. 
 
 "But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has 
 done more than any man in the nineteenth century 
 towards the muddling of arts. I do feel that music is 
 in a very serious state just now, though extraordinarily 
 interesting. Every now and then in history there do 
 come these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up 
 all the wells of thought at once. For a moment it's 
 splendid. Such a splash as never was. But afterwards 
 —such a lot of mud; and the wells— as it were, they 
 
40 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 communicate with each othei too easily now, and not 
 one of them will ran quite clear. That's what Wagner's 
 done." 
 
 Her speeches fluttered away from the young man 
 like birds. If only he could talk like this, he would have 
 caught the world. Oh, to acquire culture! Oh, to pro- 
 nounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well in- 
 formed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady 
 started! But it would take one years. With an hour at 
 lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how 
 was it possible to catch up with leisured women who 
 had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain 
 might be full of names, he might have even heard of 
 Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could not 
 string them together into a sentence, he could not make 
 them "tell," he could not quite forget about his stolen 
 umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. Behind 
 Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with the 
 steady beat of a drum. "I suppose my umbrella will be 
 all right," he was thinking. "I don't really mind about 
 it. I will think about music instead. I suppose my um- 
 brella will be all right." Earlier in the afternoon he had 
 worried about seats. Ought he to have paid as much as 
 two shillings? Earlier still he had wondered: "Shall I 
 try to do without a programme?" There had always 
 been something to worry him ever since he could re- 
 '; member, always something that distracted him in the 
 Vipursuit of beauty. For he did pursue beauty, and, there- 
 \jore, Margaret's speeches did flutter away from him like 
 birds. 
 
 Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying: "Don't 
 you think so? Don't you feel the same?" And once she 
 stopped, and said: "Oh, do interrapt me!" which ter- 
 rified him. She did not attract him, though she filled 
 him with awe. Her figure was meagre, her face seemed 
 all teeth and eyes, her references to her sister and 
 brother were uncharitable. For all her cleverness and 
 culture, she was probably one of those soulless, atheis- 
 tical women who have been so shown up by Miss Co- 
 
Howards End 41 
 
 relli. It was surprising (and alarming) that she should 
 suddenly say: "I do hope that you'll come in and have 
 some tea." 
 
 ''I do hope that you'll come in and have some 
 tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged you so far 
 out of your way." 
 
 They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, 
 and the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a 
 gentle haze. To the right the fantastic skyline of the 
 flats towered black against the hues of evening; to the 
 left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet 
 against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latchkey. Of 
 course she had forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella 
 by its ferrule, she leant over the area and tapped at the 
 dining-room window. 
 
 "Helen! Let us in!" 
 
 "All right," said a voice. 
 
 "You've been taking this gentleman's umbrella." 
 
 "Taken a what?" said Helen, opening the door. "Oh, 
 what's that? Do come in! How do you do?" 
 
 "Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took 
 this gentleman's umbrella away from Queen's Ha)l, 
 and he has had the trouble of coming for it." 
 
 "Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Helen, all her hair flying. 
 She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and 
 had flung herself into the big dining-room chair. "I do 
 nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! Do 
 come in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? 
 Mine's a nobbly— at least, I think it is." 
 
 The light was turned on, and they began to search 
 the hall, Helen, who had abruptly parted with the Fifth 
 Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries. 
 
 "Don't you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman's 
 silk top-hat. Yes, she did. Aunt Juley. It is a positive 
 fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I've 
 knocked the In and Out card down. Where's Frieda? 
 Tibby, why don't you ever—? No, I can't remember 
 what I was going to say. That wasn't it, but do tell the 
 maids to hurry tea up. What about this umbrella?" She 
 
^2 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 opened it. "No, it's all gone along^ the seams. If s an 
 appalling umbrella. It must be mine." 
 
 But it was not. 
 
 He took it from her, murmured a few words of 
 thanks, and then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk. 
 
 "But if you will stop—" cried Margaret. "Now, 
 Helen, how stupid you've been!'' 
 
 "Whatever have I done?" 
 
 "Don't you see that you've frightened him away? I 
 meant him to stop to tea. You oughtn't to talk about 
 stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw his nice eyes 
 getting so miserable. No, it's not a bit of good now." 
 For Helen had darted out into the streetj shouting: 
 "Oh, do stop!" 
 
 "I dare say it is all for the best," opined Mrs. Munt. 
 "We know nothing about the young man, Margaret, 
 and your drawing-room is full of very tempting little 
 things." 
 
 But Helen cried: "Aunt Juley, how can you! You 
 make me more and more ashamed. I'd rather he had 
 been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons than 
 that I— Well, I must shut the front door, I suppose. 
 One more failure for Helen." 
 
 "Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone 
 as rent," said Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not 
 understand, she added: "You remember 'rent.' It was 
 one of father's words — rent to the ideal, to his own 
 faith in human nature. You remember how he would 
 trust strangers, and if they fooled him he would say: 'It's 
 better to be fooled than to be suspicious'— that the 
 confidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of- 
 confidence trick is the work of the devil." 
 
 "I remember something of the sort now," said Mrs. 
 Munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add: "It was luclw 
 that your father married a wife with money." But this 
 was unkind, and she contented herself with: "Why, he 
 might have stolen the little Ricketts picture as well." 
 
 "Better that he had," §aid Helen stoutly. 
 
 "No, I agree with Aunt Juley," said Margaret. "I'd 
 
Howards End 43 
 
 rather mistrast peopFe than lose my httle Ricketts. 
 There are hmits." 
 
 Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, 
 had stolen upstairs to see whether there were scones 
 for tea. He warmed the teapot— almost too deftly— re- 
 jected the Orange Pekoe that the parlour-maid had 
 provided, poured in five spoonfuls of a superior blend, 
 filled up with really boiling water, and now called to 
 the ladies to be quick or they would lose the aroma. 
 
 "All right. Auntie Tibby," called Helen, while Mar- 
 garet, thoughtful again, said: "In a way, I wish we had 
 a real boy in the house — the kind of boy who cares for 
 men. It would make entertaining so much easier." 
 
 "So do I," said her sister. "Tibby only cares for cul 
 tured females singing Brahms." And when they joined 
 him she said rathej sharply: "Why didn't you make that 
 young man welcome, Tibby? You must do the host a 
 little, you know. You ought to have, taken his hat and 
 coaxed him into stopping, instead of -letting him be 
 swamped by screaming women." 
 
 Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his 
 forehead. 
 
 "Oh, it's no good looking superior. I mean what I 
 say." 
 
 "Leave Tibby alone!" said Margaret, who could not 
 bear her brother to be scolded. 
 
 "Here's the house a regular hen-coop!" grumbled 
 Helen. 
 
 "Oh, my dear!" protested Mrs. Munt. "How can you 
 say such dreadful things! The number of men yoii get 
 here has always astonished me. If there is any danger, 
 it's the other way round." I 
 
 "Yes, but it's the wrong sort of men, Helen means." 
 
 "No, I don't," conected Helen. "We get the right 
 sort of man, but the wrong side of him, and I say that's 
 Tibby's fault. There ought to be a something about 
 the house— an— I don't know what." 
 
 "A touch of the W.'s, perhaps?" 
 
 Helen put out her tongue. 
 
44 £• M. FORSTEK 
 
 "Who are the W.'s?" asked Tibby. 
 
 "The W.'s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know 
 about and you don't, so therel" 
 
 "I suppose that ours is a female house," said Mar- 
 garet, "and one must just accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I 
 don't mean that this house is full of women. I am trying 
 to say something much more clever. I mean that it 
 was irrevocably feminine, even in father's time. Now 
 I'm sure you understand! Well, I'll give you another 
 example. It'll shock you, but I don't care. Suppose 
 Queen Victoria gave a dinner-party, and that the guests 
 had been Leighton, Millais, Swinburne, Rossetti, Mere- 
 dith, Fitzgerald, etc. Do you suppose that the atmos- 
 phere of that dinner would have been artistic? Heavens, 
 no! The very chairs on which they sat would have seen 
 to that. So with our house— it must be feminine, and 
 all we can do is to see that it isn't eflFeminate. Just as 
 another house that I can mention, but I won't, sounded 
 irrevocably masculine, and all its inmates can do is to 
 see that it isn't brutal." 
 
 "That house being the W.'s house, I presume," said 
 Tibby. 
 
 "You're not going to be told about the W.'s, my 
 child," Helen cried, "so don't you think it. And on 
 the other hand, I don't the least mind if you find out, 
 so don't you think you've done anything clever, in 
 either case. Give me a cigarette." 
 
 "You do what you can for the house,*' said Margaret. 
 "The drawing-room reeks of smoke." 
 
 "If you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn 
 masculine. Atmosphere is probably a question of touch 
 and go. Even at Queen Victoria's dinner-party— if some- 
 thing had been just a little different— perhaps if she'd 
 worn a clinging Liberty tea-gown instead of a magenta 
 satin—" 
 
 "With an Indian shawl over her shoulders—" 
 
 "Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin—" 
 
 Bursts of disloyal laughter— you must remember 
 that they are half Genn an- greeted these suggestions. 
 
Howards End 45 
 
 and Margaret said pensively: "How inconceivable it 
 would be if the Royal Family cared about art." And 
 the conversation drifted away and aWay, and Helen's 
 cigarette turned to a spot in the darkness, and the great 
 flats opposite were sown with lighted windows, which 
 vanished and were relit again, and vanished incessantly. 
 Beyond them the thoroughfare roared gently— a tide 
 that could never be quiet, while in the east, invisible 
 behind the smokes of Wapping, the moon was rising. 
 
 "That reminds me, Margaret. We might have takeln 
 that young man into the dining-room, at all events. 
 Only the majolica plate— and that is so firmly set in 
 the wall. I am really distressed that he had no tea." 
 
 For that little incident had impressed the three 
 women more than might be supposed. It remained as 
 a goblin footfall, as a hint that all is not for the best 
 in the best of all possible worlds, and that beneath these 
 superstructures of wealth and art there wanders an ill- 
 fed boy, who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but 
 who has left no address behind him, and no name. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 We are not concerned with the very poor. They are 
 unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statis- 
 tician or the poet. TTiis story deals with gentlefolk, or 
 with those who are obliged to pretend that they are 
 gendefolk. 
 
 The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge 
 of gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see 
 it, and at times people whom he knew had dropped 
 in, and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, 
 and would admit it: he would have died sooner than 
 confess any inferiority to the rich. This may be splendid 
 of him. But he was inferior to most rich people, there 
 is not the least doubt of it. He was not as courteous as 
 
46 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 the average rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, 
 nor as lovable. His mind and his body had been alike 
 underfed, because he was poor, and because he was 
 modern they were always craving better food. Had he 
 lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured civil- 
 izations of the past, he would have had a definite status, 
 his rank and his income would have corresponded. But 
 in his day the angel of Democracy had arisen, enshad- 
 owing the classes with leathern wings, and proclaiming: 
 "All men are equal— all men, that is to say, who possess 
 umbrellas," and so he was obliged to assert gentility, 
 lest he slipped into the abyss where nothing counts 
 and the statements of Democracy are inaudible. 
 
 As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care 
 was to prove that he was as good as the Miss Schlegels. 
 Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wound them 
 in return. They were probably not ladies. Would real 
 ladies have asked him to tea? They were certainly ill- 
 natured and cold. At each step his feeling of superiority 
 increased. Would a real lady have talked about stealing 
 an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves after all, and if 
 he had gone into the house they would have clapped a 
 chloroformed handkerchief over his face. He v/alked on 
 complacently as far as the Houses of Parliament. There 
 an empty stomach asserted itself, and told him that he 
 was a fool. 
 
 "Evening, Mr. Bast." 
 
 "Evening, Mr. Dealtry." 
 
 "Nice evening." 
 
 "Evening." 
 
 Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard 
 stood wondering whether he would take the tram as 
 far as a penny would take him, or whether he would 
 walk. He decided to walk— it is no good giving in, and 
 he had spent money enough at Queen's Hall— and he 
 walked over Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thom- 
 as's Hospital, and through the immense tunnel that 
 passes under the South-Western main line at Vauxhall. 
 In the tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of 
 
Howards End 47 
 
 the trains. A sharp pain darted through his head, and 
 he was conscious of the exact form of his eye sockets. 
 He pushed on for another mile, and did not slacken 
 speed until he stood at the entrance of a road called 
 Camelia Road, which was at present his home. 
 
 Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to 
 right and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its 
 hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheap- 
 ness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road 
 two more blocks were being built, and beyond these 
 an old house was being demolished to accommodate 
 another pair. It was the kind of scene that may be ob- 
 served all over London, whatever the locality — bricks 
 and mortar rising and falling with the restlessness of 
 the water in a fountain, as the city receives more and 
 more men upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon 
 stand out like a fortress; and command, for a little, an 
 extensive view. Only for a little. Plans were out for 
 the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. And again 
 a few years, and all the flats in either road might be 
 pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at pres- 
 ent unimaginable, might arise where they had fallen. 
 
 "Evening, Mr. Bast." 
 
 "Evening, Mr. Cunningham." 
 
 "Ver}'. serious thing, this decline of the birth-rate in 
 Manchester." 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" 
 
 "Very serious thing, this decline of the birth-rate in 
 Manchester," repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the 
 Sunday paper, in which the calamity in question had 
 just been aniiounced to him, 
 
 "Ah, yesj" said Leonard, who was not going to let 
 on that he had not bought a Sunday paper. 
 
 "If this kind of thing goes on, the population of Eng- 
 land will be stationary in i960." 
 
 "You don't say sO." 
 
 "I call it a very serious thing, eh?" 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Cunningham." 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Bast." 
 
48 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and 
 turned, not upstairs, but down, into what is known to 
 house agents as a semi-basement, and to other men as a 
 cellar. He opened the door, and cried "Hullo!" with the 
 pseudo-geniality of the Cockney. There was no reply. 
 "Hullo!" he repeated. The sitting-room was empty, 
 though the electric light had been left burning. A look 
 of relief came over his face, and he flung himself into 
 the armchair. 
 
 The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, 
 two other chairs, a piano, a three-legged table, and a 
 cosy corner. Of the walls, one was occupied Ijy the win- 
 dow, the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling with 
 Cupids. Opposite the window was the door, and beside 
 the door a bookcase, while over the piano there ex- 
 tended one of the masterpieces of Maud Goodman. It 
 was an amorous and not unpleasant little hole when 
 the curtains ware drawn, and the lights turned on, and 
 the gas-stove unlit. But it struck that shallow makeshift 
 note that is so often heard in the modem dwelling-place. 
 It had been too easily gained, anxl could be relinquished 
 too easily. 
 
 As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the 
 three-legged table, and a photograph frame, hon- 
 ourably poised upon it, slid sideways, fell off into the 
 fireplace, and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of 
 way, and picked the photograph up. It represented a 
 young lady called Jacky, and had been taken at the time 
 when young ladies called Jacky were oftpn photo- 
 graphed with their mouths open. Teeth of dazzling 
 whiteness extended along either of Jacky's jaws, and 
 positively weighed her head sideways, so large were 
 they and so numerous. Take my word for it, that smile 
 was simply stunning, and it is only you and I who will 
 be fastidious, and complain that true joy begins in the 
 eyes, and that the eyes of Jacky did not accord with her 
 smile, but were anxious and hungry. 
 
 Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and 
 
Howards End ^ 
 
 cut his fingers and swore again. A drop of blood fell on 
 the frame, another followed, spilling over on to the ex- 
 posed photograph. He swore more vigorously, and 
 dashed into the kitchen, where he bathed his hands. 
 The kitchen was the same size as the sitting-room; 
 through it was a bedroom. This completed his home. 
 He was renting the flat furnished: of all the objects 
 that encumbered it, none were his own except the 
 photograph frame, the Cupids, and the books. 
 
 "Damn, damn, damnation!" he murmured, together 
 with such other words as he had learnt from older men. 
 Then he raised his hand to his forehead and said: "Oh, 
 damn it all—" which meant something different. He 
 pulled himself together. He drank a little tea, black and 
 silent, that still survived upon an upper shelf. He swal- 
 lowed some dusty crumbs of a cake. Then he went back 
 to the sitting-room, settled himself anew, and began to 
 read a volume of Ruskin. 
 
 "Seven miles to the north of Venice—" 
 
 How perfectly the famous chapter opens! How su- 
 preme its command of admonition and of poetry! The 
 lich man is speaking to us from his gondola. 
 
 "Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of 
 sand which nearer the city rise little above low-water 
 mark attain by degrees a higher level, and knit them- 
 selves at last into fields of salt morass, raised here and 
 there into shapeless mounds, and intercepted by nar- 
 row creeks of sea." 
 
 Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin: he 
 understood him to be the greatest master of English 
 Prose. He read forward steadily, occasionally making a 
 few notes. 
 
 "Let us consider a little each of these characters in 
 succession, and first (for of the shafts enough has been 
 said already), what is very peculiar to this church— its 
 luminousness." 
 
 Was there anything to be learnt from this fine sen- 
 tence? Could he adapt it to the needs of daily life? 
 
5© E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Could he introduce it, with modifications, when he 
 next wrote a letter to his brother, the lay reader? For 
 example — 
 
 "Let us consider a little each of these characters in 
 succession, and first (for of the absence of ventilation 
 enough has been said already), what is very peculiar to 
 this flat— its obscurity." 
 
 Something told him that the modifications would 
 not do; and that something, had he known it, was the 
 spirit of English Prose. "My flat is dark as well as 
 stuffy." Those were the words for him. 
 
 And the voice in the gondola rolled on, piping me- 
 podiously of Effort and Self-Sacrifice, full of high pur- 
 pose, full of beauty, full even of sympathy and the love 
 of men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual and 
 insistent in Leonard's life. For it was the voice of one 
 who had never been dirty or hungry, and had not 
 guessed successfully what dirt and hunger are. 
 ~ Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that he 
 was being done good to, and that if he kept on with 
 Ruskin, and the Queen's Hall Concerts, and some pic- 
 tures by Watts, he would one day push his head out of 
 the grey waters and see the universe. He believed in 
 sudden conversion, a belief which may be right, but 
 which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked mind. It 
 is the basis of much popular religion: in the domain of 
 business it dominates the Stock Exchange, and be- 
 comes that "bit of luck" by which all successes and fail- 
 ures are explained. "If only I had a bit of luck, the 
 whole thing would come straight. . . . He's got a most 
 magnificent place down at Streatham and a 20 h.-p. 
 Fiat, but then, mind you, he's had luck. . . . I'm sorry 
 the wife's so late, but she never has any luck over 
 catching trains." Leonard was superior to these pe(q)le; 
 he did believe in effort and in a steady preparation for 
 the change that he desired. But of a heritage that may 
 expand gradually, he had no conception: he hoped to 
 come to Culture suddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes 
 
Howards End 51 
 
 to come to Jesus. Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; 
 they had done the trick; their hands were upon the 
 ropes, once and for all.' And meanwhile, his flat was 
 dark, as well as stuffy. 
 
 Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut 
 up Margaret's card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened 
 the door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to 
 say that she was not\respectable?)Her appearance was 
 awesome. She seemed all strings and bell-pulls— rib- 
 bons, chains, bead necklaces that clinked and caught — 
 and a boa of azure feathers hung round her neck, with 
 the ends uneven. Her throat was bare, wound with a 
 double row of pearls, her arms were bare to the elbows, 
 and might again be detected at the shoulder, through 
 cheap lace. Her hat, which was flowery, resembled those 
 punnets, covered with flannel, which we sowed with 
 mustard and cress in our childhood, and which germi- 
 nated here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back ot 
 her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are too 
 complicated to describe, but one system went down 
 her back, lying in a thick pad there, while another, 
 created for a lighter destiny, rippled around her fore- 
 head. The face— the face does not signify. It was the 
 face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were 
 not so numerous as the photographei had suggested, 
 and certainly not so white. Yes, Jacky was past her 
 prime, whatever that prime may have been. She was de- 
 scending quicker than most women into the colourless 
 years, and the look in her eyes confessed it. 
 
 "What ho!" said Leonard, greeting the apparition 
 with much spirit, and helping it off with its boa. 
 
 Jacky, in husky tones, replied: "What hoi" 
 
 "Been out?" he asked. The question sounds super- 
 fluous, but it cannot have been really, for the lady an- 
 swered "No," adding: "Oh, I am so tired." 
 
 "You tired?" 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "I'm tired," said he, hanging the boa up. 
 
C2 " E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Oh, Len, I am so tired." 
 
 "I've been to that classical concert I told you about, ' 
 said Leonard. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "I came back as soon as it was over." 
 
 "Anyone been round to our place?" asked Jacky. 
 
 "Not that I've seen. I met Mr. Cunningham out- 
 side, and we passed a few remarks." 
 
 "What, not Mr. Cunningham?" 
 - "Yes." 
 
 "Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham." 
 
 "Yes. Mr. Cunningham." 
 
 "I've been out to tea at a lady friend's." 
 
 Her secret being at last given to the world, and the 
 
 name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky 
 
 made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring 
 
 art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. 
 
 Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her 
 
 smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was— 
 
 On the shelf. 
 
 On the shelf. 
 
 Boys, boys, I'm on the shelf, 
 
 she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts 
 
 of song (of which the above is an example) still issued 
 
 from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. 
 
 She sat down on Leonard's knee, and began to fondle 
 him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, 
 and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say 
 anything. Then she said: "Is that a book you're read- 
 ing?" and he said: "That's a book," and drew it from 
 her unreluctant grasp. Margaret's card fell out of it. It 
 fell face downwards, and he murmured: "Bookmarker." 
 
 "Len-" 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, a little wearily, for she only 
 had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his 
 
 "You do love me?" 
 
 "Jacky, you know that Ido. How can you ask such 
 questionsl" 
 
Howards End 53 
 
 "But you do love me, Len, don't you?" 
 
 "Of course I do." 
 
 A pause. The other remark was still due. 
 
 "Len-" 
 
 "Well? What is it?" 
 
 "Len, you will make it all right?" 
 
 "I can't have you -ask me fiiat again," said the boy, 
 flaring up into a sudden passion. "I've promised to 
 marry you when I'm of age, and that's enough. My 
 word's my word. I've promised to marry you as soon as 
 ever I'm twenty-one, and I can't keep on being worried. 
 I've worries enough. It isn't likely I'd throw you over, 
 let alone my word, when I've spent all this money. Be- 
 sides, I'm an Englishman, and I n£ver go back on my 
 word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I'll marry you. 
 Only do stop badgering me." 
 
 "When's your birthday, Len?" 
 
 "I've told you again and again, the eleventh ot 
 November next. Now get off my knee a bit; someone 
 must get supper, I suppose." 
 
 JaclKy went through to the bedroom, and began to see 
 to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp 
 puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began 
 to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into 
 the slot of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking 
 with metallic fumes. Somehow he could not recover 
 his temper, and all the time he was cooking he con- 
 tinued to complain bitterly. 
 
 "It really is too bad when a fellow isn't trusted. It 
 makes one feel so wild, when I've pretended to the peo- 
 ple here that you're my viafe— all right, you shall be my 
 wife— and I've bought you the ring to wear, and I've 
 taken this flat furnished, and it's far more than I can 
 afford, and yef you aren't content, and I've also not 
 told the truth when I've written home." He lowered 
 his voice. "He'd stop it." In a tone of horror that was 
 a little luxurious, he repeated: "My brother'd stop it. 
 I'm going against the whole world, Jacky. 
 
 "That's what I am, Jacky. I don't take any heed of 
 
54 E. M, FOKSTER 
 
 what anyone says. I just go straight forward, I do. 
 That's always been my way. I'm not one of your weak 
 knock-kneed chaps. If a woman's in trouble, I don't 
 leave her in the lurch. That's not my street. No, thank 
 you. 
 
 "I'll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal 
 about improving myself by means of Literature and 
 Art, and so getting a wider outlook. For instance, when 
 you came in I was reading Ruskin's Stones of Venice. 
 I don't say this to boast, but just to show you the kind 
 of man I dim. I can tell you, I enjoyed that classical 
 concert this afternoon." 
 
 To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent. 
 When supper was ready— and not before — she emerged 
 from the bedroom, saying: "But you do love me, don't 
 you?" 
 
 They began with a soup square, which Leonard had 
 just dissolved in some hot water. It was followed by the 
 tongue — a freckled cylinder of meat, with a Jittle jelly 
 at the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at the bottom 
 -rending with another square dissolved in water (jelly: 
 pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier in the 
 day. Jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionally looking 
 at her man with those anxious eyes, to which riothing 
 else in her appearance corresponded, and which yet 
 seemed to mirror her soul. And Leonard managed to 
 convince his stomach that it was having a nourishing 
 meal. 
 
 After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged 
 a few statements. She observed that her "likeness" had 
 been broken. He found occasion to remark, for the sec- 
 ond time, that he had come straight back home after 
 the concert at Queen's Hall. Presently she sat upon his 
 knee. The inhabitants of Camelia Road tramped to and 
 fro outside the window, just on a level with their heads, 
 and the family in the flat on the ground-floor began to 
 sing: "Hark, my soul, it is the Lord." 
 
 "That tune fairly gives me the hump," said Leonard. 
 
Howards End 55 
 
 Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she 
 thought it a lovely tune. 
 
 "No; I'll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, 
 for a minute." 
 
 He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg. 
 He played badly and vulgarly, but the performance was 
 not without its ejSFect, for Jacky said she thought she'd 
 be going to bed. As she receded, a new set of interests 
 possessed the boy, and he began to think of what had 
 been said about music by that odd Miss Schlegel— 'the 
 one that twisted her face about so when she spoke. 
 Then the thoughts grew sad and envious. There was the 
 girl named Helen, who had pinched his umbrella, and 
 the German girl who had smUed at him pleasantly, and 
 Hen someone, and Aunt someone, and the brother—, 
 all, all with tfieir hands on the ropes. They had all 
 passed up that narrow, rich staircase at Wickham Place, 
 to some ample room, whither he could never follow 
 them, not if he read for ten hours a day. Oh, it was no 
 good;, this continual aspiration. Some are bom cultured; 
 the rest had better go in for whatever comes easy. To 
 see lite steadily and to see it whole was not for the likes J 
 of him. 
 
 From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called: 
 "Len?" 
 
 "You in bed?" he asked, his forehead twitching. 
 
 "M'm." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Presently she called him again. 
 
 "I must clean my boots ready for the morning," he 
 answered. 
 
 Presently she called him again. 
 
 "I rather want to get this chapter done." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 He closed his ears against her.^ 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "All right, Jacky, nothing; I'm reading a book." 
 
 "What?" 
 
56 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "What?" he answered, catching her degraded deaf- 
 ness. 
 
 Presently she called him again. 
 
 Ruskin had visited Torcello by this time, and was 
 ordering his gondoliers to take him to Murano. It oc- 
 curred to him, as he glided over the whispering lagoons, 
 that the power of Nature could not be shortened by 
 the folly nor her beauty altogether saddened by the 
 misery, of such as Leonard. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 "Oh,, Margaret," 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 society." 
 That Mrs. Munt should be the first to discover the mis- 
 fortune was not remarkable, for she was so interested in 
 the flats that she watched their every mutation with un- 
 wearying 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 
 amiising 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, exclaiihing 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 passen- 
 ger lifts, the provision hfts, the arrangement for coals 
 
Howards End 57 
 
 (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 interests," she 
 explained. "She has plenty of other things and other 
 people to think about. She made a false 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'U 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 leaviilg cards, even a dinner-party — ^we can 
 do all those things to the Wilcoxes, if they find it agree- 
 able; but the otiier thing, the one important thing— 
 never again. Don't you see?" . 
 
 Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was ' 
 making a most questionable statement — ^that any emo- 
 tion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die, 
 
 "I also have the honour to inform you that the Wil- 
 coxes 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 apolo- 
 gized 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." 
 
;8 E. M. FOKSTER 
 
 "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 Juley?" 
 
 Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. "It is only that a 
 certain family, whom we know by name but do not 
 mention, as you said yourself last night after the con- 
 cert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons 
 —where the plants are in the balcony." 
 
 Helen began some laughing reply, and then discon- 
 certed them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so discon- 
 certed that she exclaimed: "What, Helen, you don't 
 mind them coming, do you?" and deepened the blush 
 to crimson. 
 
 "Of course I don't mind," said Helen a little crossly. 
 "It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave 
 about it, when there's nothing to be grave about at 
 all." 
 
 "I'm not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in 
 her turn. 
 
 "Well, you look grave; doesn't she, Frieda?" 
 
 "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. "1 
 can bear witness to that. She disagrees—" 
 
Howards End 59 
 
 ^'Hark!" interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear 
 Bruno entering the Jiall." 
 
 For Hen Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call 
 toi the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall 
 —in fact, he did not entei it for quite five minutes. But 
 Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she 
 and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down be- 
 . low and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arrang- 
 ing 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 Mathesons' flat. Aunt Juley? 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 Mar- 
 garet almost in the same breath: "Helen cannot- deceive 
 me. She does mind." 
 
 "Oh, hush!" breathed Margaret. "Frieda'll hear you, 
 and she can be so tiresome." 
 
 "She minds," persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thought- 
 fully about the room and pulling the dead chrysanthe- 
 mums out of the vases. "I knew she'd mind— and I'm 
 sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful, 
 coarse-grained people! I know more about them than 
 you do, which you forget, and it Charles had taken you 
 that motor drive— wel^,. 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 draw- 
 ing-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 moustache and a copper-coloured 
 face be?" 
 
 "Mr. Wilcox, possibly." 
 
 "I knew it. And there's Mr. Wilcox." 
 
 "It's a shame to call his face copper colour," com- 
 plained Margaret. "He has a remarkably good complex- 
 ion for a man of his age." 
 
6o E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could aflEord 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 border- 
 land. 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 an- 
 other method, or fail. "Because I'd sooner risk it," was 
 her lame conclusion. 
 
 "But imagine the evenings," exclaimed her aunt, 
 pointing to the Mansions wiQi the spout of the water- 
 ing-can. "Turn the electric light on here or there, and 
 it's almost the same room. One evening they may for- 
 get 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. Munt; 
 
Howards End 61 
 
 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 Wilcoxes 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 round 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. But 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 can- 
 not always reach those whom they want to love, and 
 they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love 
 no liMiger. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June 
 if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people and 
 couldn't invoke railways dnd njotor-cars to part them." 
 
 "That's more like (SocialisnO' said Mrs. Munt sus- 
 piciously. ^ 
 
 "Call it what you like. I call it going through life with 
 one's hand 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 crum- 
 ble 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 be- 
 cause 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 Mosebach. 
 
62 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Really, for a Gennan she does dress charmingly. Oh— l" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes' 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 diflBcult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or 
 for riches? For riches. Hunah for riches!" 
 
 "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, 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 ac- 
 quaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you 
 agree with us." 
 
 "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. 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 ofiBce? There's a house- 
 maid who won't say yes but doesn't say no^ 
 
 On their way thither they too looked up at the Wil- 
 coxes' flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most 
 rudely," according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nui- 
 sance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against 
 a passing encounter, but— Margaret began to lose con- 
 fidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if the family 
 were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mose- 
 bach was stopping with them for another fortnight, 
 and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite ca- 
 pable of remarking: "You love one of the young gentle- 
 men opposite, yes?" The remark would be untrue, but 
 of tlie kind which, if stated often enough, may become 
 true; just as the remark, "England and Germany are 
 
Howards End 63 
 
 bound to fight," renders war a little more likely each 
 time that it is made, and 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 Juley 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 
 saw it clearly— Journalism; her father, with all his de- 
 fects and wrong-headedness, had been Literature, and 
 had he lived, he would have persuaded his daughter^ 
 rightly. 
 
 The registry oflSce was holding its aiorning reception. 
 A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel 
 waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an 
 insidious '^temporary," being rejected by genuine house- 
 maids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her 
 failure depressed her, and though she forgot the fail- 
 ure, the depression remained. On her way home she 
 again glanced up at the Wilcoxes' flat, and took the 
 rather matronly step of speaking about the matter to 
 Helen. 
 
 "Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries 
 you." 
 
 "It 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 
 our house and says: 'There lives the girl who tried to 
 catch me.' But she might." 
 
 "If even that worries you, we could arrange some- 
 
64 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 thing. 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 am going away. Frieda's just asked me to 
 Stettin, and I shan't be back till after the New Year. 
 Will that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? 
 Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a 
 fuss?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I 
 minded nothing, but really I— 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 
 Juley attacked you this morning. I shouldn't have re- 
 ferred to it otherwise." 
 
 But Helen's laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy 
 hand to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and no- 
 how, would she again tall in love with any of the Wilcox 
 family, down to its remotest collaterals. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, 
 which was to develop so quickly and with such strange 
 results, may perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer, 
 in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the 
 vulgar, ruddy cathedral and listened ,to the talk of 
 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 
 Hings. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss 
 Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret 
 whose presence she had particularly desired. All this 
 is speculation: Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear indica- 
 tions behind her. It is certain that she came to call at 
 Wickham Place a fortnight later, the very day fliat 
 Helen was going with her cousin to Stettin. 
 
Howards End 65 
 
 "Helen!" cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones 
 (she was now in her cousin's confidence)— "his mother 
 has forgiven you!" And then, remembering that in Eng- 
 land the new-comer ought not to call before she is 
 called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disap- 
 proval, and opined that Mrs. Wilcox was "keine 
 Dame." 
 
 "Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. 
 "Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish 
 your packing. Why can't the woman leave us alone?" 
 
 "I don't know what I shall do with Meg," Helen re- 
 torted, collapsing upon the stairs. "She's got Wilcox 
 and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don't love the 
 young gentleman; I don't love the young genterman, 
 Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?" 
 
 "Most certainly her love has died," asserted Frau- 
 lein Mosebach. 
 
 "Most, certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not pre- 
 vent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return 
 the call." 
 
 Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mose- 
 bach, who thought her extremely amusing, did the 
 same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg's going to re- 
 turn the call, and I can't, 'Cos why? 'Cos I'm going to 
 German-eye." 
 
 "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you 
 aren't, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." 
 
 "But, Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentle- 
 man; I don't love the young— O lud, who's that com- 
 ing down the stairs? I vow 'tis my brother. O crimini!" 
 
 A male— even such a male as "Tibby— was, enough to 
 stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing 
 among the 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" withJaughter, and even with a growing brutality. 
 Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any 
 news that did not concern himself. It was rather the 
 
66 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, 
 and that, however trivial it was on this side of the bar- 
 rier, it would become important on that. So she 
 stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until 
 her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein 
 Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over 
 the banisters to Margaret: "It is all right— she does not 
 love the young man— he has not been worthy of her." 
 
 "Yes, I know; thanks very much." 
 
 "I thought I did right to tell you." 
 
 "Ever so many thanks." 
 
 "What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and 
 he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat Elvas plums. 
 
 That evening Margaret took decisive action. The 
 house was very quiet, and the fog— we are in November 
 now — pressed against the windows like an excluded 
 ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggage had gone. 
 Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa 
 by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind 
 darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled 
 them all in review. The practical person, who knows 
 what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing 
 else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way 
 her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could 
 accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as 
 if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter 
 that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue 
 of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a 
 breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the 
 colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Wilcox, 
 
 7 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 
 
Howards End 67 
 
 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 sistei 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. SCHLECEL 
 
 Margaret sent this lettei round by the post. Next 
 morning she received the following reply by hand: 
 
 Dear Miss Schlegel, 
 
 You should not have written me such a letter. 
 I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad. 
 
 Ruth Wilcox 
 
 Margaret's cheeks burnt. She could not finish her 
 breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told 
 her that the youth was leaving England, but other 
 things had seemed more important, and she had for- 
 gotten. All her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, 
 and in their place arose the certainty that she had been 
 rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness afifected 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 netd. She flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor 
 woman, and plunged into the fog, which still con- 
 tinued. Her lips were compressed, tihe letter remained 
 in her hand, and in this state she crossed the street, 
 entered the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded the 
 concieiges, and ran up the stairs till she reached the 
 second floor. 
 
 She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown 
 straight into Mrs. Wilcox's bedroom. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. 
 I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say." 
 
-68 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and 
 did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in 
 bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned 
 her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside 
 her. The light of the fire, the light from the window, 
 and the light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering 
 halo round her hands, combined to create a strange at- 
 mosphere of dissolution. 
 
 "I knew he was goingv to India in November, but I 
 forgot." 
 
 "He" sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa." 
 
 "I knew— I know. I have been too absurd all through. 
 I am very much ashamed." 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. 
 
 "I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you 
 will forgive me." 
 
 "It doesn't matter. Miss SchlegeL It is good of you to 
 have come round so promptly." 
 
 "It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude 
 to you; and^my sister is not even at home, so there was 
 not even that excuse.'' ^ 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "She has just gone to Germany." 
 
 "She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes, cer- 
 tainly, it is quite safe— safe, absolutely, now." 
 
 "You've been worrying too!" exclaimed Marpret, 
 getting more and more excited, and taking a chair with- 
 out invitation. "How perfectly extraordinary! I can see 
 that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn't meet 
 him again." 
 
 "I did think it best." 
 
 "Now why?" 
 
 "That's a most difficult question," said Mrs. Wilcox, 
 smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance. 
 "I think you put it best in your letter— it was an in- 
 stinct, 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?" 
 
Howards End 69 
 
 She repeated: "An instinct which may be wrong." 
 
 "In other words, they belong to types that can fall 
 in love, but couldn't live together. That's dreadfully 
 probable. I'm afraid that in nine cases out of ten Na- 
 ture 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 wheii I knew that my boy cared for your sister." 
 
 "Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How did 
 you know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt drove 
 up, and you stepped forward and arranged things. Did 
 Paul tell you?" 
 
 "There is nothing to be gained by discussing that," 
 said Mrs. Wilcox after a moment's pause. 
 
 "Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? 
 I wrote you a letter and you didn't answer it." 
 
 "I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson's flat. 
 I knew it was opposite your house." 
 
 "But it's all right now?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "You only think? You aren't sure? I do love these 
 little muddles tidied up." 
 
 "Oh yes, I'm sure," said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with 
 uneasiness beneath the clothes. "I always sound un- 
 certain 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 conver- 
 sation, it was on more normal lines. 
 
 "I must say good-bye how— you will be getting up." 
 
 "No— please stop a little longer- 1 am taking a day 
 in bed. Now and then I do." 
 
 "I thought of you as one of the early risers." 
 
 "At Howards End— yes; there is nothing to get up 
 for in London." 
 
 "Nothing to get up for?" cried the scandalized Mar- 
 garet. "When there are all the aulamn exhibitions, and 
 Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention peo- 
 ple." 
 
TO E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "The truth is, I am a Httle tired. First came the wed- 
 ding, 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 of- 
 fered it to us. So before the day came we were able to 
 make the acquaintance of Dolly's people, which we had 
 not yet done.^' 
 
 Margaret asked who Dolly's people were. 
 
 "Fussell." The father is in the Indian army— retired; 
 the brother is in the army. The mother is dead." 
 
 So perhaps these were the "chinless sunburnt men" 
 whom Helen had espied one afternoon through the 
 window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes 
 of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on 
 Helen's account, and it still clung to her. She asked 
 for more information about Miss Dolly Fussell that 
 was, and was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs. 
 Wilcox's voice, though sweet and compelling, had little 
 range of expression. It suggested that pictures, concerts, 
 and people are all of small and equal value. Only once 
 had it quickened— when speaking of Howards End. 
 
 "Charles and Albert Fussell have known one an- 
 other 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 four- 
 some. We all like her, and are very much pleased. They 
 were married on the nth, 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 nth. 
 The Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas, 
 but they were very nice about it. There is Dolly's photo- 
 graph — in that double frame." 
 
 "Are you quite certain that I'm not interruDtina 
 Mrs. Wilcox?" ^ * 
 
Hcrwards End 71 
 
 "Yes, quite." 
 
 "Then I will stay. I'm enjoying this." 
 
 Dolly's photograph was now examined. It was signed 
 "For dear Mims," which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as 
 "the name she and Charles had settled that she should 
 call me." Dolly looked silly, and had one of those trian- 
 gular 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 to- 
 gether 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 Howards End." 
 
 "I suppose you have a garage there?" 
 
 "Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, 
 to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, 
 in what used to be the paddock for the pony." 
 
 The last words had an indescribable ring about them. 
 
 "Where's the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a 
 pause. 
 
 "The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago." 
 
 "The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a 
 very splendid tree." 
 
 "It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your 
 sister tell you about the teeth?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs' teeth stuck 
 into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. The 
 country people put them in long ago, and they think 
 that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the 
 
72 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and 
 no one comes to the tree." 
 
 "I should. I love folklore and all festering supersti- 
 tions." 
 
 "Do you think that the tree really did cure tooth- 
 ache, if one believed in it?" "^ 
 . "Of course it did. It would cure anything— once." 
 
 "Certainly I remember cases— you see, I lived at 
 Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I 
 was born there." 
 
 The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed 
 little more than aimless chatter. She was interested 
 when her hostess explained that Howards End was her 
 own property. She was bored when too minute an ac- 
 count was given of the Fussell family, of the^^xieties 
 of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr., 
 Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Mar- 
 garet could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive, 
 played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed 
 Dolly's glass, apologized, was pairdoned, cut her finger 
 thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must be going 
 —there was all the housekeeping to do, and she had to 
 interview Tibby's riding-master. 
 
 Then the curious note was struck again. 
 
 "Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for 
 coming. You have cheered me up." 
 
 "I'm so glad!" 
 
 "I— I wonder whether you ever think about yourself." 
 
 "I think of nothing else," said Margaret, blushing, 
 but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid. 
 
 "I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg." 
 
 "I'm sure!" 
 
 "I almost think—" 
 
 "Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause— a 
 pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, 
 the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the 
 white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and 
 etemal shadows. 
 
 "I almost think you forget you're a girl." 
 
Howards End 73 
 
 Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I'm 
 twenty-nine, ' she remarked. "That's not so wildly girl- 
 ish." 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox smiled. 
 
 "What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have 
 been gauche and rude?" 
 
 A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-., 
 one, and that to me both of you— Read it all in some 
 book or other; I cannot put things clearly." 
 
 "Oh, I've got it— inexperience, I'm no better than 
 Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her." 
 
 "Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word." 
 
 "Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet 
 buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to learn 
 —absolutely everything— just as much as Helen. Life's 
 very difEcult and full of surprises. At all events, I've 
 got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight 
 ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remem- 
 ber the submerged— well, one can't do all these things 
 at once, worse luck, because they're so contradictory. 
 It's then that proportion comes in— to live by propor- 
 tion. Don't begin with proportion. Only prigs do that. 
 Let proportion come in as a last resource, when the bet- 
 ter things have failed, and a deadlock— Gracious me, 
 I've started preaching!" 
 
 "Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly," 
 said Mrs. Wilcox, withdrawing her hand into the deeper 
 shadows. "It is just what I should have liked to say 
 about them myself." 
 
 O _^ 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret 
 much information about life. And Margaret, on the 
 other hand, has made a fair show of modesty, and has 
 pretended to an inexperience that she certainly did not 
 feel. She had kept house for over ten years; she had en- 
 
74 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 tertained, almost with distinction; she had brought up a 
 charming sister, and was bringing up a brother. Surelf, 
 •if experience is attainable, she had attained it. 
 
 Yet the little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs. 
 Wilcox's honour was not a success. The new friend did 
 not blend with the "one or two delightful people" who 
 had been asked to meet her, and the atmosphere was 
 one of polite bewilderment. Her tastes were simple, her 
 knowledge of culture slight, and she was not interested 
 in the New English Art Club, nor in the dividing-line 
 between Journalism and Literature, which was started 
 as a conversational hare. The delightful people darted 
 after it with cries of joy, Margaret leading them, and 
 not till the meal was half over did they 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 il^ 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 Rail- 
 way. 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." Mar- 
 garet 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 Stet- 
 tin. Did you. ever know any one living at Stettin?" 
 
 "Never," said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neigh- 
 bour, a young man low down in the Education Office, 
 began to discuss what people who lived at Stettin 
 ought to look like. Was there such a thing as Stettinin- 
 ity? Margaret swept on. 
 
 "People at Stettin drop things into boats out of over- 
 
Howards End yj 
 
 hanging warehouses. At least, our cousins do, but aren't 
 particularly rich. The town isn't interesting, except for 
 a clock -that rolls its eyes, and the view of the Oder, 
 which truly is something special. Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, you 
 would love the Oder! The river, or rather rivers— there 
 seem to be dozens of them — are intense blue, and the 
 plain they run through an intensest green." 
 
 "Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view. 
 Miss Schlegel." 
 
 "So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says 
 no, it's like miisic. The course of the Oder is to be like 
 music. It's obliged to remind her of a symphonic poem. 
 The part by the landing-stage is in B minor, if I remem- 
 ber rightly, but lower down things get extremely mixed. 
 There is a slodgy theme in several keys at once, mean- 
 ing mud-banks, and another for the. navigable canal, 
 and the exit into the Baltic is in C sharp major, pianis- 
 simo." 
 
 "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 af- 
 fectation to compare the Oder to music, and so do you, 
 but the overhanging warehouses of Stettin take beauty 
 seriously, which we don't, and the average Englishman 
 doesn't, and despises all who do. Now don't say, 'Ger- 
 mans have no taste,' or I shall scream. They haven't. 
 But— but— such a tremendous but!— they take poetry 
 seriously. They do take poetry seriously." 
 
 "Is anything gained by that?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. The German is always on the lookout for 
 beauty. He may miss it through stupidity, or misinter- 
 pret it, but he is always asking beauty to enter his hfe, 
 and I believe that in the end it will come. At Heidel- 
 berg I met a fat veterinary surgeon whose voice broke 
 with sobs as he repeated some mawkish poetry. So 
 easy for me to laugh— I, who never repeat poetry good, 
 or bad, and cannot remember one fragment of verse 
 to thrill myself with. My blood boils— well, I'm half 
 
•j6 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 German, so put it down to patriotism— when I listen 
 to the tasteful contempt of the average islander for 
 things Teutonic, whether they're Bocklin or -my vet- 
 erinary surgeon. 'Oh, Bocklin,' they say; 'he strains 
 after beauty, he peoples Nature with gods too con- 
 sciously.' Of course Bocklin strains, because he wants 
 something— beauty and all the other intangible gifts 
 that are floating about the world.. So his landscapes 
 don't come off, and Leader's do." 
 
 "I am not sure that I agree. Do you?" said he, turn- 
 ing to Mrs. Wilcox. 
 
 She replied: "I think Miss Schlegel puts every- 
 thing splendidly"; and a chill fell on the conversation. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that. It's 
 such a snub to be told you put things splendidly." 
 
 "I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech in- 
 terested -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, goodl 
 Give us your side." 
 
 "I have no side. But my husband"— her voice soft- 
 ened, the chill increased— "has very little faith in the 
 Continent, and our children have all taken after him." 
 
 "On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent 
 is in bad form?" 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to 
 grounds. She was not intellectual,, nor even alert, and it 
 was odd that, all the same, she should give the idea of 
 , greatness. Margaret, zig-zagging with her friends over 
 Thought and Art, was conscious of a pgrsonality that 
 transcended their own and dwarfed their activities. 
 There was no bitterness in Mrs. Wilcox; there was not 
 even criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious or 
 uncharitable word had passed her lips. Yet she and 
 daily life were out of focus: one or the other must show 
 blurred. And at lunch she seemed more out of focus 
 than usual, and nearer the line that divides daily life I 
 from a life that may be of greater importance. 
 
Howards End jj 
 
 "You will admit, though, that the Continent— it 
 seems silly to speak of 'the Continent,' but really it is 
 all more like itself than any part of it is like England. 
 England is unique. Do have another jelly first. I was 
 going to say that the Continent, for good or for evil, is 
 interested in ideas. Its literature and art have what one 
 might call the kink of the unseen about them, and this 
 persists even through decadence and aflFectation. There 
 is more liberty of action in England, but for liberty of 
 thought go to bureaucratic Prussia. People will there 
 discuss with humility vital questions that we here think 
 ourselves too good to touch with tongs." 
 
 "I do not want to go to Prussia," said Mrs. Wilcox 
 —"not even to see that interesting view that you were 
 describing. And for discussing with humility I am too , 
 old. We never discuss anything at Howards End." 
 
 "Then you ought to!" said Margaret. "Discussion v 
 keeps a house alive. It cannot stand by bricks and mor- 
 tar alone." 
 
 "It cannot stand without them," said Mrs. Wilcox, 
 unexpectedly catching on to the thought, and rousing, 
 for the first and last time, a faint hope in the breasts 
 of the delightful people. "It cannot stand without 
 them, and I sometimes think— But I cannot expect 
 your generation to agree, for even my daughter dis- 
 agrees with me here." 
 
 "Never mind us or her. Do say!" 
 
 "I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and 
 discussion to men." 
 
 There was a little silence. "l 
 
 "One admits that the arguments against the suflErage A 
 are extraordinarily strong," said a girl opposite, leaning 
 forward and crumbling her bread. 
 
 "Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only_ 
 too thankful not to have a vote myself." 
 
 "We didn't mean the vote, though, did we?" sup- 
 plied Margaret. "Aren't we differing on something 
 much wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to re- 
 main what they have been since the dawn of history; 
 
jS E. M. FORSTER 
 
 or whether, since men have moved forward so far, they 
 too may move forward a little now. I Say they may. I 
 would even admit a biological change." 
 
 "I don't know, I don't know." 
 
 "I must be getting back to my overhanging ware- 
 house," said the man. "They've turned disgracefully 
 strict." 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox also rose. 
 
 "Dh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested 
 plays. Do you like MacDowell? Do you mind him only 
 having two noises? If you must really go, I'll see you 
 out. Won't you even have coffee?" 
 
 They left the dining-room, closing the door behind 
 them, and as Mrs. Wilcox buttoned up her jacket, she 
 said: "What an interesting life you all lead in LondonI" 
 
 "No, we don't," said Margaret, with a sudden revul- 
 sion. "We lead the lives, of gibbering monkeys, Mrs. 
 Wileox-^really — We have something quiet and stable 
 at the bottom. We really have. All my friends have. 
 Don't pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, 
 but forgive me by coming again, alone, or by asking me 
 to you." 
 
 "I am used to young people," said Mrs. Wilcox, and 
 with each word she spoke, the outlines of known things 
 grew dim. "I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for 
 we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is more 
 sport and politics, but — I enjoyed my lunch very much. 
 Miss Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only 
 wish I could have joined iii more. For one thing, I'm 
 not particularly well just today. For another, you 
 younger people move so quickly that it dazes me. 
 Charles is the same, Dolly the same. But we are all in 
 the same boat, old and young. I never forget that." 
 
 They were silent for a moment. Then, with a new- 
 bom 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. 
 
Howards End to 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 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 affec- 
 tions, and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round 
 them. Then they withdraw. When physical passion is 
 involved, there is a definite name for such behaviour— 
 flirting— and if carried far enough, it is punishable by 
 law. But no law— not public opinion, even— punishes 
 those who coquette with friendship, though the dull 
 ache that they inflict, the sense of misdirected effort 
 and exhaustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one, 
 of these? 
 
 Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner's 
 impatience, she wanted everything to be settled up im- 
 mediately. 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 favoura- 
 ble. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She 
 refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to re- 
 open discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret 
 would have utilized as a short-cut. She took her time, 
 or perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did 
 come all was ready. 
 
 Tlie crisis opened with a message: would Miss 
 Schlegel come shopping? Christmds 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 eleven o'clock 
 one cheerless morning they started out in a brougham. 
 
 "First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list 
 
8o E. M. FORSTER 
 
 and tick off the people's names. My aunt always does, 
 and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you 
 any ideas?" 
 
 *"! thought we would go to Hanod's or the Hay- 
 market Store's," said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly, 
 "Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. 
 The din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right— 
 one ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and 
 write your own name at the top of the page." , 
 
 "Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very 
 kind of you to start with me!" But she did not want to 
 receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was 
 singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the 
 Wflcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; 
 the more compact families do. She did not want to be 
 thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents 
 since she could not snatch young men, nor to be ex- 
 posed, like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of 
 Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and 
 she added: "I don't really want a Yuletide gift, though. 
 In fact, I'd rather BOt." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I've odd ideas about Christmas. Because I 
 have all that money can buy. I want more people, but 
 no more things." 
 
 "I should like to give you something worth your ac- 
 quaintance. 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 noth- 
 ing 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 
 
Howards End 81 
 
 clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox's vitality was low that morn- 
 ing, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for 
 this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector's wife a 
 copper warming-tray. "We always give, the servants 
 money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Mar- 
 garet, but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon 
 the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at 
 Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity 
 reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation 
 against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our 
 Christmas goose club"— one bottle of gin, etc., or two, 
 according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights 
 heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red 
 devils, who had come in again that year, were prevalent 
 upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid 
 idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and 
 self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of 
 it that struck her with amazement annually. How many 
 of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants 
 realized that it was a divine event that drew them to- 
 gether? 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, be- 
 lieved 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. In- 
 adequate. 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 an- 
 nounced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace 
 and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year." 
 "Is it? I am only used to country Christmases." 
 "We are usually in London, and play the game with 
 vigour — carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, 
 clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree 
 
82 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 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 be- 
 hind, it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a pow- 
 der-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to 
 be very small, and the presents don't hang on it. No; 
 the presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of 
 crumpled brown paper." 
 
 "You spoke of your 'next house,' Miss Schlegel. Then 
 are you leaving Wickham Place?" 
 
 "Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. 
 We must." 
 
 "Have you been there long?" 
 
 "All our lives." 
 
 "You will be very sorry to leave it." 
 
 "I suppose so. We scarcely realize it yet. My father—" 
 She broke ofiF, for they had reached the stationery de- 
 partment 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, wastirig 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 thfit, 
 and could never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just as 
 the assistant was booking the order, she said: "Do you 
 know, I'll wait. On second thoughts, I'll wait. There's 
 plenty of time still, isn't there, and I shall be able to 
 get Evie's opinion." 
 
 They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when 
 they were in, she said: "But couldn't vou set it 
 renewed?" y & n 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret. 
 
Howards End gj 
 
 "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 enonnously. They mean 
 to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours." 
 
 "But how horrible!" 
 
 "Landlords are horrible." 
 
 Then she said vehemently: "It is monstrous. Miss 
 Schlegel; it isn't right. I had no idea that this was hang- 
 ing 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 mayn't die in the room 
 where they were born? My dear, I am so sorry—" 
 
 Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had 
 been overtired by the shopping, and was inclined to 
 hysteria. 
 
 "Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It 
 would have killed me." 
 
 "Howards End must be a very different house to 
 ours. We are fond of ours, but there is nothing dis- 
 tinctive about it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London 
 house. We shall easily find another," 
 
 "So you think." 
 
 "Again my lack of experience, I suppose!" said Mar- 
 garet, easing away from the subject. "I can't say any- 
 thing when you take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox. I wish 
 I could see myself as you see me— foreshortened into a 
 backfisch. Quite the ingenue. Very charming— wonder- 
 fully well read for my age, but incapable—" 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. "Come down 
 with me to Howards End now," she said, more vehe- 
 mently than ever. "I want you to see it. You have never 
 seen it. I want to hear what you say about it, for you do 
 put things so wonderfully." 
 
 Margaret glanced at the pitiles$ air and then at the 
 ■tired face of her companion. "Later on I should love 
 
84 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 it," she continued, "but it's hardly the weather for such 
 an expedition, and we ought to start when we're fresh. 
 Isn't the house shut up, too?" 
 
 She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be 
 annoyed. 
 
 "Might I come some other day?" 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. "Back 
 to Wickham Place, please!" was her order to the coach- 
 man. Margaret had been snubbed. 
 
 "A thousand thanks,^ Miss Schlegel, for all your help." 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind 
 —the Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your 
 choice." 
 
 It was her turn to receive no answer. In her tum Mar- 
 garet became annoyed. 
 
 "My husband and Evie will be back the day after, 
 tomorrow. That is why I dragged you out shopping to- 
 day. I stayed in town chiefly to shop, but got through 
 nothing, and now he writes that they must cut their 
 tour short, the weather is so bad, and the police-traps 
 have been so bad — nearly as bad as in Surrey. Ours is 
 such a careful chauffeur, and my husband feels it par- 
 ticularly hard that they should be treated like road- 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, naturally he— he isn't a road-hog." 
 "He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He 
 must expect to suffer with the lower animals." 
 Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort 
 ,1 they drove homewards. The city seemed Satanic, the 
 l\ nanower 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 awk- 
 ward, and her meditations on Christmas grew more 
 
Howards End 85 
 
 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 purney, than 
 coldly to reply: "Might I come some other day?" Her 
 cynicism left her. There would be no other day. This 
 shadowy woman would never ask her again. 
 
 They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in 
 after due civilities, and Margaret watched the tall, 
 lonely figure sweep up the hall to the lift. As the glass 
 doors closed on it she had the sense of an imprison- 
 ment. The beautiful head disappeared first, still buried 
 in the mufiF; the long trailing skirt followed. A woman 
 of undefinable rarity was going up heavenwards, 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. Tibby was not ill-natured, but from 
 babyhood something drove him to do the unwelcome 
 and the unexpected. Now he gave her a long account 
 of the day-school that he sometimes patronized. The 
 account was iiiteresting, and she had often pressed him 
 for it before, but she could not attend now, fojr her 
 mind was focussed on the invisible. She discerned that 
 Virs. Wilcox, though a loving wife and mother, had 
 only one passion in life— her house — and that the mo- 
 ment was solemn when she invited a friend to share 
 this passion with her. To answer "another day" was to 
 answer as a fool. "Another day" will do for brick and 
 mortar, but not for the Holy of Holies into which 
 Howards End had been transfigured. Her own curiosity 
 was slight. She had heard more than enough about it 
 in the summer. The nine windows, the vine, and the 
 wych-elm had no pleasant connections for her, and she 
 
86 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 would have preferred to spend the afternoon at a con- 
 cert. But imagination triumphed. While her brother held 
 forth she determined to go, at whatever cost, and to 
 compel Mrs. Wilcox to go, too. When lunch was over, 
 she stepped over to the flats. 
 , Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night. 
 
 Margaret said that it was of no consequence, hurried 
 downstairs, and took a hansom to King's Cross. She 
 was convinced that the escapade was important, though 
 it would have puzzled her to say why. There was a ques- 
 tion 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 min- 
 utes. She took a ticket, asking in her agitation for a 
 single. As she did so, a grave and happy voice saluted 
 her and thanked her. 
 
 "I will come if I still may," said Margaret, laughing 
 nervously. 
 
 "You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the mora- 
 ing that my house is most beautiful. You are coming 
 to stop. I cannot show you my meadow properly except 
 at sunrise. These fogs"— she pointed at the station 
 roof— "never spread far. I dare say they are sitting in 
 the sun in Hertfordshire, and you will never repent 
 joining them." 
 
 "I shall never repent joining you." 
 
 "It is the same." 
 
 They began the walk up the long platform. Far at its 
 end stood the train, breasting the darkness without. 
 They never reached it. Before imagination could tri- 
 umph, there were cries of "Mother! Mother!" and a 
 heavy-browed girl darted out of the cloak-room and 
 seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm. 
 
 "Evie!" she gasped. "Evie, my pet—" 
 
 The giri called: "Father! I say! look who's here." 
 
 "Evie, dearest girl, why aren't you in Yorkshire?" 
 
Howards End 8* 
 
 "No— motor smash— changed plans— Father's com- 
 ing." 
 
 "Why, Ruth!" cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "What 
 in the name of all that's wonderful are you doing here, 
 Ruth?" 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself. 
 
 "Oh, Henry dear!— here's a lovely surprise— but let 
 me introduce— but I think you know Miss Schlegel." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he replied, not greatly interested. "But 
 how's yourself, Ruth?" 
 
 "Fit as a fiddle," she answered gaily. 
 
 "So are we and so was our car, which ran A-i as far 
 as Ripon, but there a wretched horse and cart which a 
 fool of a driver — " 
 
 "Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another 
 day." . 
 
 "I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the police- 
 man himself admits — " 
 
 "Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course." 
 
 "—But as we've insured against third-party risks, it 
 won't so much matter— ' 
 
 "—Cart and car being practically at right angles—" 
 
 The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret 
 was left alone. No one wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox walked 
 out of King's Cross between her husband and her daugh- 
 ter, listening to both of them. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The funeral was over. The carriages rolled away through 
 the soft mud, and only the poor remained. They ap- 
 proached 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. 
 
88 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Pure curiosity had brought others. They thrilled with 
 the excitement of a death, and of a rapid death, and 
 stood in groups or moved between the graves, like drops 
 of ink. The son of one of them, a wood-cutter, was 
 perched high above their heads, pollarding one of the 
 churchyard elms. From where he sat he could see the 
 village of Hilton, strung upon the North Road, with its 
 accreting suburbs; the sunset beyond, scarlet and orange, 
 winking at him beneath brows of grey; the church; the 
 plantations; and behind him an unspoilt country of 
 fields and farms. But he, too, was rolling the event lux- 
 uriously in his mouth. He tried to tell his mother down 
 below all that he had felt when he saw the coffin ap- 
 proaching: how he could not leave his work, and yet 
 did not like to go on with it; how he had almost slipped 
 out of the tree, he was so upset; the rooks had cawed, 
 and no wonder— it was as if rooks knew too. His mother 
 claimed the prophetic power herself — she had seen a 
 strange look about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London 
 had done the mischief, said others. She had been a kind 
 lady; her grandmother had Tjeen kind, too — a plainer 
 person, but very kind. Ah, the old sort was dying out! 
 Mr. Wilcox, he was a kind gentleman. They advanced 
 to the topic again and again, dully, but with exaltation. 
 The funeral of a rich person was to them what the fu- 
 neral of Alcestis, of Ophelia, is to the educated. It was 
 Art; though remote from life, it enhanced life's values, 
 and tliey witnessed it avidly. 
 
 The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercunent 
 ot disapproval— they disliked Charles; it was not a mo- 
 ment to speak of such thmgs, but they did, not like 
 Charles Wilcox— the grave-diggprs finished their work 
 and piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun 
 set over Hilton: the grey brows of the evening flushed 
 a little, and were cleft with one scariet frown. Chatter- 
 ing sadly to each other, the mourners passed through 
 the lych-gate and traversed the chestnut avenues that 
 led down to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed 
 a little longer, poised above the silence and swaying 
 
Howardk End 89 
 
 rhythmically. At last the bough fell beneath his saw. 
 With a grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling no 
 longer on death, but on love, for he was mating. He 
 stopped as he passed the new grave; a sheaf of tawny 
 chrysanthemums had caught his eye. "They didn't ought 
 to have coloured flowers at buryings," he reflected. 
 Tradging on a few steps, he stopped again, looked 
 furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a chrysan- 
 themum 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 in- 
 terment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds 
 drifted over it from the west; or the church may have 
 been a shjpriitgh-prowed, steering with all its company 
 towards Qnfinityy Towards morning the air grew colder, 
 the sky qleafErTthe surface of the earth hard and spar- 
 kling above the prostrate deadi The wood-cutter, return- 
 ing after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they 
 chrysants; it's a pity I didn't take them all." 
 
 Up at Howards End they Were attempting breakfast. 
 Charles and Evie sat iri the dining-room, with Mrs. 
 Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, 
 breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came 
 over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while 
 he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and 
 he would lay down the morsel untasted. 
 
 He remembered his wife's even goodness during 
 thirty years. Not anything in detail— not courtship or 
 early raptures— but just the unvarying virtue, that 
 seemed to him a woman's noblest quality. So many 
 women are capricious, (breaking into odd flaws of pas- 
 sion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, sum- 
 mer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the 
 same, he bad always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her 
 innocence! The wonderful innocence that was hers 
 by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of wordly 
 wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her gar- 
 den or the grass in her field. Her idea of business— 
 
go E. M. FORSTEH 
 
 "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to 
 get more money?" Her idea of politics— "I am sure that 
 if the mothers of various nations could meet, there 
 would be no more wars." Her idea of religion— ah, this 
 had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of 
 Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissent- 
 ers, were now members of the Church of England. The 
 rector's sermons had at first repelled her, and she had 
 expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding: 
 "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward 
 light must have been granted^ for he heard no com- 
 plaints in later years. They brought up their three 
 children without dispute. They had never disputed. 
 
 She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as 
 if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a 
 touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn't 
 you tell me you knew of it?" he had moaned, and her 
 faint voice had answered: "I didn't want to, Henry— I 
 might have been wrong— and every one hates illnesses." 
 He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, 
 whom she had consulted during his absence from town. 
 Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she 
 had died. It was a fault on her part, and— tears rushed 
 into his eyes— what a little fault! It was the only time 
 she had deceived him in those thirty years. 
 
 He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, 
 for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet 
 no one's eye. Ah yes — ^she had been a good woman — 
 she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. 
 To him steadiness included all praise. 
 
 He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, was in ap- 
 pearance 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 fore- 
 head, too, was like Charles's. High and straight, brown 
 
Howards End oi 
 
 and polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, 
 it had the eflfect of a bastion that protected his head 
 from the world. At times it had the efifect of a blank 
 wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty 
 years. 
 
 "The post's come. Father," said Evie awkwardly. 
 
 "Thanks. Put it down." 
 
 "Has the breakfast been all right?" 
 
 "Yes, thanks." 
 
 The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She 
 did not know what to do. 
 
 "Charles says do you want the Times?" 
 
 "No, I'll read it later." 
 
 "Ring if you want anything. Father, won't you?" 
 
 "I've all I want." 
 
 Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went 
 back to the dining-room. 
 
 "Father's eaten nothing," she announced, sitting 
 down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn. 
 
 Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran 
 quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said: "Look here, 
 Father, you must eat, you know"; and having paused 
 for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He's 
 going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; 
 "I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." 
 Then he took up the Times, and for some time there 
 was no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and 
 of knife on plate. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions, 
 terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She 
 was alrubbishy little creature| and she knew it. A tele- 
 gram 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 fated to die, could have died before 
 the maniage, for then less would have been expected 
 of her. Crumbling her toast, and too nervous to ask for 
 the butter, she remained almost motionless, thankful 
 
02 E, M. FORSTER 
 
 only for this, that her father-in-law was having his break- 
 fast upstairs. 
 
 At last Charles spoke. "They had no business to be 
 pollarding those elms yesterday," he said to his sister. 
 
 "No indeed." 
 
 "I must make a note of that," he continued. "I am 
 surprised that the rector allowed it." 
 
 "Perhaps it may not be the rector's afiEair." 
 
 "Whose else could it be?" 
 
 "The lord of the manor." ' 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 "Butter, Dolly?" 
 
 "Thank you, Evie dear. Charles—" 
 
 "Yes, dear?" 
 
 "I didn't know one could pollard elms. I thought one 
 only pollarded willows." 
 
 "Oh no, one can pollard elms." 
 
 "Then why oughtn't the elms in the churchyard to 
 be pollarded?" 
 
 Charles frowned a little, and turned again to his sis- 
 ter. "Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley." 
 
 "Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley." 
 
 "It's no good him saying he is not responsible for 
 those men. He is responsible." 
 
 "Yes, rather." 
 
 Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus, 
 partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the 
 mark— a Jiealthy 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 in to breakfast. It was in the other rooms, 
 and especially in the garden, that they felt her loss most. 
 As Charles went out to the garage, he was reminded at 
 every step of the woman who had loved him and whom 
 he could never replace. What battles he had fought 
 
Howards End oa 
 
 against her gentle conservatism! How she had disliked 
 improvements, yet how loyally she had accepted them 
 when made! He and his father— what trouble they had 
 had to get this very garage! With what difficulty had 
 they persuaded her to yield them the paddock for it— 
 the paddock that she loved more dearly than the garden 
 itself! The vine— she had got her way about the vine. It 
 still encumbered the south wall with its unproductive 
 branches. And so with Evie, as she stood talking to the 
 cook. Though she could take up her mother's work in- 
 side the house, just as the man could take it up without, 
 she felt that something unique had fallen out of her 
 life. Their grief, though less poignant than their father's, 
 grew from deeper roots, for a wife may be replaced; a 
 (mother never. 
 
 Charles would go back to the ofEce. There was little 
 to do at Howards End. The- contents of his mother's 
 will had been long known to them. There were no lega- 
 cies, no annuities, none of the posthumous bustle with 
 which some of the dead prolong their activities. Trust- 
 ing her husband, she had left him everything without 
 reserve. She was quite a poor woman— the house had 
 been all her dowry, and the house would come to 
 Charles in time. Her water-colours Mr. Wilcox intended 
 to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery 
 and lace. How easily she slipped out of life! Charles 
 thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend 
 to adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen 
 in it an almost culpable indifiEerence to earthly fame. 
 Cynicism— not the superficial cynicism that snarls and 
 sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and 
 tenderness— that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox's will. 
 She wanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the 
 earth might freeze over her for ever. 
 
 No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He 
 could not go on with his honeymoon, so he would go 
 up to London and work— he felt too miserable hanging 
 about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat 
 while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. 
 
g/J E. M. FORSTER 
 
 He could also keep an eye on his own little house, which 
 was being painted and decorated for him in one of the 
 Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself 
 soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch 
 in his new motor, and the town servants, who had come 
 down for the funeral, would go up by train. 
 
 He found his father's chauffeur in the garage, said 
 "Morning" without looking at the man's face, and, 
 bending over the car, continued: "Hullo! my new car's 
 been driven!" 
 
 "Has it, sir?" . 
 
 "Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and who- 
 ever'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 dis- 
 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 hoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face and 
 elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof. 
 
 "One minute, I'm busy. Well, Crane, who's been 
 driving it, do you suppose?" 
 
 "Don't know, I'm sure, sir. No one's driven it since 
 I've been back, but, of. course, there's the fortnight I've 
 been away with the other car in Yorkshire." 
 
 The mud came off easily. 
 
 "Charles, your father's down. Something's happened. 
 He wants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!" 
 
 "Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key to the 
 garage while you were away, Crane?" 
 
 "iTie 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 York- 
 shire. No more mud now, sir." 
 
Howards End gj 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing 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, Charges always asked 
 what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of 
 action. And the question in this case was correct, for 
 his wife replied: "She wants Howards End." 
 
 "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don't forget to 
 put on the Stepney wheel." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Now, mind you don't forget, for I— Come, little 
 woman." When they were out of the chauffeur's sight 
 he put his arm 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— Howards 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 morn- 
 ing for it either." 
 
 "I tell you— I keep on telling you— Miss Schlegel— 
 she's got it— your mother's left it to her— and you've 
 all got to move out!" 
 
 "Howards End?" 
 
 "Howards End!" she screamed, mimicking him, and 
 as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shrubbery. 
 
 "Dolly, go back at once! My father's much annoyed 
 with you. Charles"— she hit herself wildly— "come in 
 
96 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 at once to Father. He's had a letter that's too awful." 
 
 Charles began to run, but checked himself, and 
 stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house 
 was— the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He ex- 
 claimed: "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, 
 Dolly said: "Oh no, the matron of the nuising-home 
 has written instead of her." 
 
 "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no 
 longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wilcox-" 
 
 "I told you not to go out to the garage. I've heard 
 you all shouting in the garden. I won't have it. Come 
 in." 
 
 He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can't 
 discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. 
 Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." 
 
 Charles took two letters, and read them as he fol- 
 lowed the procession. The first was a covering note from 
 the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the 
 funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The 
 enclosed— it was from his mother herself. She had 
 written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlege) 
 (Margaret) to have Howards End." 
 
 "I suppose we're going to have a talk about this?" 
 he remarked, omiiiously calm. 
 
 "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly—" 
 
 "Well, let's sit down." 
 
 "Come, Evie, don't waste time, sit down." 
 
 In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The 
 events of yesterday— indeed, of this morning— suddenly 
 receded into'^ past so remote that they seemed scarcely 
 to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They 
 were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them 
 further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my 
 mother's handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my 
 father, sealed. Inside: T should like Miss Schlegel (Mar- 
 garet) to have Howards End.' No date, no signature. 
 
Howards End 97 
 
 Forwarded through the matron of that nursing-home. 
 Now, the question is—" 
 
 Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn't 
 legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, 
 surely." 
 
 Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps 
 appeared in front of either ear— a symptom that she 
 had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether 
 she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for 
 permission, who said abstractedly: "Give it her." She 
 seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it's only in 
 pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." 
 
 "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said 
 Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are 
 aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it 
 I up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we 
 consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if 
 you do not interfere with what you do not understand." 
 
 Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then 
 repeated: "The question is—" He had cleared a space 
 of the breakfast-table from plates and knives so that 
 he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The ques- 
 tion is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we 
 were all away, whether she unduly—" He stopped. 
 
 "I don't think that," said his father, whose nature was 
 nobler than his son's. 
 
 "Don't think what?" 
 
 "That she would have- that it is a case of undue 
 influence. No, to my mind the question is the— the in- 
 valid'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." 
 
 "nie poor little wiie coloured at this, and, drawing 
 her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No 
 one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. 
 The two men were gradually assuming the manner of 
 
98 E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 the committee-room. They were both at their best when 
 serving on committees. Tliey did not make the mistake 
 of handhng human affaiis 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 Uttle demur, accepted 
 the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next 
 point. It is the best— perhaps the only— wajr of dodging 
 emotion. They were the average human article, and had 
 they considered the note as a whble, 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 steins, 
 extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across 
 the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. 
 Evie's fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only 
 a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that 
 surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds 
 that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for 
 all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. 
 Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident 
 note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion 
 moved towards its close. 
 
 To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment 
 when the commentator should step forward. Ought 
 the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? 
 I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; 
 tt had been written in illness, and under the spell of a 
 «udden friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman's 
 Intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so 
 far as that nature was understood by them. To them 
 Howards End was a house: they could not know that to 
 her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual 
 heir. And— pushing one step farther in these mists- 
 may they not have decided even better than they sup- 
 posed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit 
 
Howards End 99 
 
 can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A 
 wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it— can 
 passion for such things be transmitted where there is 
 no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be 
 blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not 
 even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting 
 that after due debate they should tear the note up and 
 throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical 
 moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives to 
 look deeper may acquit them— almost. For one hard 
 fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal. The 
 woman who had died did say to them: "Do this," and 
 they answered: "We will not." 
 
 The incident made a most painful impression on 
 them. Grief mounted into the brain and worked there 
 disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: "She was 
 a dear mother, a true wife: in our absence she neglected 
 her health and died." 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 seen, and all that they 
 could say was "Treachery." Mrs. Wilcox had been 
 treacherous to the family, to the laws of property, to 
 her own written word. How did she expect Howards,, 
 End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her hus- 
 band, to whom it legally belonged, to make it over to 
 her as a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have a 
 life interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there to 
 be no compensation for the garage and other improve- 
 ments that they had made uiider 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 our- 
 selves to their departure. That note, scribbled in pencil, 
 sent through the matron, was unbusinesslike as well as 
 cruel, and decreased at once the value of the woman 
 who had written it. • - 
 
 "Ah, well!" said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. 
 "I shouldn't have thought it possible." 
 
lOO E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Mother couldn't have meant it," said Evie, still 
 fiowning. 
 
 "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 ap- 
 preciate." 
 
 "The whole thing is unlike her," he announced. 
 "If Miss Schlegel had been poor, if she had wanted a 
 house, I could understand it a little. But she has a house 
 of her own. Why should she want another? She wouldn't 
 have any use for Howards End." / 
 
 "That time may prove," murmured Charles. 
 
 "How?" asked his sister. 
 
 "Presumably she knows — Mother will have told her. 
 She got twice or three times into the nursing-home. 
 Presumably she is awaiting developments." 
 
 "What a horrid woman!" And Dolly, who had re- 
 covered, cried: "Why, she may be coming down to turn 
 us out now!" 
 
 Charles put her right. "I wish she would," he said 
 ominously. "I could then deal with her." 
 
 "So could I," echoed his father, who was feeling 
 rather in the cold. Charles had been kind in undertak- 
 ing the funeral arrangements and in telling him to eat 
 his breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little 
 dictatorial, and assumed the post of chairman too read- 
 ily. "I could deal with her, if she comes, but she won't 
 come. You're. all a bit hard on Miss Schlegel." 
 
 "That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though." 
 
 "I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I 
 said at the time, and besides, it is quite apart from 
 this business. Margaret Schlegel has been officious and 
 tiresome during this terrible week, and we have all suf- 
 fered 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. 
 
Howards End loi 
 
 "You see, Charles, in her terrible pain your poor 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 cus- 
 tom in Germany." 
 
 "Oh, I forget she isn't really English," cried Evie. 
 "That would explain a lot." 
 
 "She's a cosmopolitan," '^aid Charles, looking at 
 his watch. "I admit I'm rather down on cosmopolitans. 
 My fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, and a Ger- 
 man cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that's about 
 all, isn't it? I want to run down and see Chalkeley. A 
 bicycle will do. And, by the way, I wish you'd speak to 
 Crane some time. I'm certain he's had my new car out." 
 
 "Has he done it any harm?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "In that case, I shall let it pass. It's not worth while 
 having a row." 
 
 Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they 
 always parted with an increased regard for one another, 
 and each desired no doughtier comrade when it was 
 necessary to voyage tor a little past the emotions. So 
 the sailors of Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having 
 first stopped one another's ears with wool. 
 
102 E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 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 comer. Her mind was bent on other 
 questions now, and by her also it would have been re- 
 jected as the fantasy of an invalid. 
 
 She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second 
 time. Paul and his mother, ripple and great wave, had 
 flowed into her life and ebbed out of it for ever. The 
 ripple had left no traces behind: the wave had strewn 
 at her feet fragments torn frt)m 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 with- 
 drawal had hinted at other things besides disease and 
 pain. Some leave our life with tears, others with an in- 
 sane frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the middle course, 
 which only rarer natures can pursue. She had kept pro- 
 portion. She had told a little of her grim secret to her 
 friends, but not too much; she had shut up her heart- 
 almost, but not entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule, 
 that we ought to die— neither as victim nor as fanatic, 
 but as the seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the 
 deep that he is entering, and the shore that he must 
 leave. 
 
 The last word— whatever it would be— had certainly 
 not been said in Hilton churchyard. She had not died 
 there. A funeral is not death, any more than baptism 
 is birth or marriage union. All tljree are the clumsy 
 devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which 
 
Howards End 103 
 
 Society would cegister the quick motions of man. In 
 Margaret's eyes Mrs, Wilcox had escaped registration. 
 She had gone out of life vividly, her own way, and no 
 dust was so truly dust as the contents of that heavy 
 coffin, lowered with ceremonial until it rested on the 
 dust of the earth, no flowers so utterly wasted as the 
 chrysanthemums that the frost must have withered 
 before morning. Margaret had once said she "loved 
 superstition." It was not true. Few women had tried 
 more earnestly to pierce the accretions in which body 
 and soul are enwrapped. The death of Mrs. Wilcox had 
 helped her in her work. She saw a little more clearly 
 than hitherto what a human being is, and to what he 
 may aspire. Truer relationships gleamed. Perhaps the 
 last word would be hope— hope even on this side of the 
 grave. 
 
 Meanwhile, she could take an interest in the sur- 
 vivors. In spite of her Christmas duties, in spite of her 
 brother, the Wilcoxes continued to play a considerable 
 part in her thoughts. She had seen so much of them in 
 the final week. They were not "her sort," they were 
 often suspicious and stupid, and deticient where she 
 excelled; but collision with them stimulated her, and 
 she felt an interest that verged into liking, even for 
 Charles. She desired to protect them, and often felt that 
 they could protect her, excelling where she was deficient. 
 Once past the rocks of emotion, they, knew so well what 
 to do, whom to send for; their hands were on all the 
 ropes, they had grit as well as grittiness, and she valued 
 grit enormously. They led a life that she could not 
 attain to— the outer life of "telegrams and anger," 
 which had detonated when Helen and Paul had touched 
 in June, and had detonated again the other week. To 
 Margaret this life was to remain a real force. She could_ 
 not despise it, as Helen and Tibby affected to do. It 
 fostered such virtues as neatness, decision, and obedi- 
 ence, virtues of the second rank, no doubt, but they 
 have formed our civilization; They form character, toor 
 
104 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Margaret could not doubt it: they keep the soul from 
 becoming sloppy. How dare Schlegels despise Wilcoxes, 
 when it takes all sorts to make a world? 
 
 "Don't brood too much," she wrote to Helen, "on 
 the superiority of the unseen to the seen. If s true, but 
 to brood on it is mediaeval. Our business is not to 
 contrast the two, but to reconcile them." 
 
 Helen replied that she had no intention of brooding 
 on such a dull subject. What did her sister take her for? 
 The weather was magnificent. She and the Mosebachs 
 had gone tobogganing on the only hill that Pomerania 
 boasted. It was fun, but overcrowded, for the rest of 
 Pomerania had gone there too. Helen loved the coun- 
 try, and her letter glowed with physical exercise and 
 poetry. She spoke of the scenery, quiet, yet august; of 
 the snow-clad fields, with their scampering herds of 
 deer; of the river and its quaint entrance into the Baltic 
 Sea; of the Oderberge, only three hundred feet high, 
 from which one slid all too quickly back into the Pom- 
 eranian plains, and yet these Oderberge were real moun- 
 tains, 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 refened 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 than death itself. 
 The atmosphere of precautions and recriminations, and 
 in the midst a human body growing more vivid because 
 it was in pain; the end of that body in Hilton church- 
 yard; the survival of something that suggested hope, 
 vivid in its turn against life's workaday cheerfulness- 
 all these were lost to Helen, who only felt that a pleas- 
 ant lady could now be pleasant no longer. She returned 
 to Wickham Place full of her own aftairs— she had had 
 another proposal— and Margaret, after a moment's 
 hesitation, was content that this should be so. 
 
 The proposal had not been a serious matter. It was 
 the work of Fraulein Mosebach, who had conceived the 
 large and patriotic notion of winning back her cousins 
 
Howards End 105 
 
 to the Fatherland by matrimony. England had played 
 Paul Wilcox, and lost; Germany played Herr Forstmeis- 
 ter someone— Helen could not remember his name. 
 
 Herr Forstmeister lived in a wood, and standing on 
 the summit of the Oderberge, he had pointed out his 
 house to Helen, or rather, had pointed out the wedge 
 of pines in which it lay. She had exclaimed: "Oh, how 
 lovely! That's the place for mel" and in the evening 
 Frieda appeared in her bedroom. "I have a message, 
 dear Helen," etc., and so she had, but had been very 
 nice when Helen laughed; quite understood— a forest 
 too solitary and damp — quite agreed, but Herr Forst- 
 meister believed he had assurance to the contrary. Ger- 
 many had lost, but with good-humour; holding , the 
 manhood of the world, she felt bound to win. "And 
 there will even be someone for Tibby," concluded 
 Helen. "There now, Tibby, think of that; Frieda is 
 saving' up a little girl for you, in pig-tails and white 
 worsted stockings, but the feet of the stockings are pink, 
 as if the little girl had trodden in strawberries. I've talked 
 too much. My head aches. Now you talk." 
 
 Tibby consented to talk. He too was full of his own 
 afiEairs, for he had just been up to try for a scholarship 
 at Oxford. The men were down, and the candidates 
 had been housed in various colleges, and had dined in 
 hall. Tibby was sensitive to beauty, the experience 
 was new, and he gave a description of his visit that was 
 almost glowing. The august and mellow university, 
 soaked with the richness of the western counties that it 
 has served for a thousand years, appealed at once to the 
 boy's taste: it was the kind of thing he could under- 
 stand, and he understood it all the better because it 
 was empty. Oxford is— Oxford: not a mere receptacle 
 for youth, like Cambridge. Perhaps it wants its inmates 
 to love it rather than to love one another: such at all 
 events was to be its effect on Tibby. His sisters sent 
 him there that he might make friends, for they knew 
 that his education had been cranky, and had severed 
 him from other boys and men, He made no friends. 
 
lo6 E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 His Oxford remained Oxford empty, and he took into 
 life with him, not the memory of a radiance, but the 
 memory of a colour scheme. 
 
 It pleased Margaret to hear her brother and sister 
 talking. They did not get on overwell as a rule. For a 
 few moments she listened to them, feeling elderly and 
 benign. Then something occurred to her, and she in- 
 terrupted: 
 
 "Helen, I told you about poor Mrs. Wilcox; that sad! 
 business?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I have had a conespondence with her son. He was 
 winding up the estate, and wrote to ask me whether 
 his mother had wanted me to have anything. I thought 
 it good of him, considering I knew her so little. I said 
 that she had once spoken of giving me a Christmas 
 present, but we both forgot about it afterwards." 
 
 "I hope Charles took the hint." 
 
 "Yes— that is to say, her husband wrote later on, and 
 thanked me for being a little kind to her, and actually 
 gave me her silver vinaigrette. Don't you think that is 
 extraordinarily generous? It has made me like him very 
 much. He hoped that this will not be the end of our 
 acquaintance, but that you and I will go and stop with 
 Evie some time in the future. I like Mr. Wilcox. He is 
 taking up his work — rubber— it is a big business. I gather 
 he is launching out, rather. Charles is in it, too. Charles 
 is married— a pretty little creature, but she doesn't seem 
 wise. They took on the flat, but now they have gone off 
 to a house of their own." 
 
 Helen, after a decent pause, continued her account 
 of Stettin. How quickly a situation changes! In June 
 she had been in a crisis; even in November she could 
 blush and be unnatural; now it was January, and the 
 whole affair lay forgotten. Looking back on the past 
 six months, Margaret realized the chaotic nature of our 
 '' daily life, and its difference from the orderly sequence 
 that has been fabricated by historians. Actual Ufe is full 
 of false clues and sign-posts that lead nowhere. With 
 
Howards End 107 
 
 infinite effort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that never 
 comes. The most successful career must show a waste 
 of strength that might have removed mountains, and 
 the most unsuccessful is not that of the man who is 
 taken unprepared, but of him who has prepared and is 
 never taken. On a tragedy of that kind our national 
 morality is duly silent. It assumes that 'preparation 
 against danger is in itself a good, and that men, like 
 nations, are the better for staggering through life fully 
 armed. The tragedy of preparedness has scarcely been 
 handled, save by the Greeks. Life is indeed dangerous, 
 but not in the way morality would have us believe. It 
 is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not a 
 battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, and 
 its essence is romantic beauty. 
 
 Margaret hoped that for the future she would be less 
 cautious, not more cautious, than she had been in the 
 past. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household con- 
 tinued to lead its life of cultured but not ignoble ease, 
 still swimming gracefully on the grey tides of London, 
 Concerts and plays swept past them, money had been 
 spent and renewed, reputations won and lost, and the 
 city herself, emblematic of their lives, rose and fell in a 
 continual flux, while her shallows washed more widely 
 against the hills of Surrey and over the fields of Hert- 
 fordshire. This famous building had arisen, that was 
 doomed. Today Whitehall had been transformed: it 
 would be the turn of Regent Street tomorrow. And 
 month by month the roads smelt more strongly of 
 petrol, and were more difficult to cross, and human 
 beings heard each other speak with greater difficulty, 
 breathed less of the air, and saw less of the sky. Nature, 
 
108 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 I withdrew: the leaves were falling by midsummer; the 
 j sun shone through dirt with an admired obscurity. 
 I To speak against London is no longer fashionable. 
 The Earth as an artistic cult has had its day, and the 
 literature of the near future will probably ignore the 
 country and ^eek inspiration from the town. One can 
 funderstand the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental 
 forces, the public has heard a little too much— they 
 seem Victorian, while London is Georgian— and those 
 who care for the earth with sincerity may wait long 
 ere the pendulum swings back to her again. Certainly 
 London fascinates. One visualizes it as a tract of quiver- 
 ing grey, intelligent without purpose, and excitable 
 without love; as a spirit that has altered before it can 
 be chronicled; as a heart that certainly beats, but with 
 no pulsation of humanity. It lies beyond everything: 
 Nature, with all her crae%, comes nearer to us than do 
 these crowds of men. A friend explains himself: the 
 earth is explicable— from her we came, and we must 
 return to her. But who can explain Westminster Bridge 
 Road or Liverpool Street in ihe morning— the city in- 
 haling; or the same thoroughfares in the evening— the 
 city exhaling her exhausted air? We reach in desperation 
 beyond the fog, beyond the very stars, the voids of the 
 universe are ransacked to justify the monster, and 
 stamped with a human face. London is religion's op- 
 portunity—not the decorous religion of theologians, but 
 anthropomorphic, crude. Yes, the continuous flow 
 would be tolerable if a man of our own sort— not any- 
 one pompous or tearful— were canng for us up in the 
 sky. 
 
 The Londoner seldom understands his city until it 
 sweeps him, too, away from his moorings, and Mar- 
 garet's eyes were not opehed until the lease of Wick- 
 ham Place expired. She had always known that it must 
 expire, but the knowledge only became vivid about nine 
 months before the event. Then the house was suddenly 
 ringed with pathos. It had seen so much happiness. 
 
Howards End 109 
 
 Why had it to be swept away? In the streets of the city 
 she noted for the first time the architecture of hurry, 
 and heard the language of hurry on the mouths of its 
 inhabitants— chpped words, formless sentences, potted 
 expressions of approval or disgust. Month by month 
 things were stepping livelier, but to what goal? The 
 population still rose, but what was the quality of 
 the men bom? The particular millionaire who owned the 
 freehold of Wickham Place, and desired to erect Baby- 
 lonian flats upon it — what right had he to stir so large 
 a portion of the quivering jelly? He was not a fool— she 
 had heard him expose Socialism— but true insight began 
 just where his intelligence ended, and one gathered that 
 this was the case with most millionaires. What right had 
 such men — But Margaret checked herself. That way 
 lies madness. Thank goodness she, too^ had some money, 
 and could purchase a new home. 
 
 Tibl^, now in his second year at Oxford, was down 
 for the Easter vacation, and Margaret took the oppor- 
 tunity of having a serious talk with him. Did he at all 
 know where he wanted to live? Tibby didn't know that 
 he did know. Did he at all know what he wanted to do? 
 He was equally uncertain, but when pressed remarked 
 that he should pirefer to be quite free of any profession. 
 Margaret was not shocked, but went on sewing for a 
 few minutes before she replied: 
 
 "I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me as 
 particularly happy." 
 
 "Ye-es," said Tibby, and then held his mouth open 
 in a curious quiver, as if he, too, had thought of Mr, 
 Vyse, had seen round, through, over, and beyond Mr. 
 Vyse, had weighed Mr. Vyse, grouped him, and finally 
 dismissed him as having no possible bearing on the sub- 
 ject under discussion. That bleat of Tibby's infuriated 
 Helen. But Helen was now down in the dining-room 
 
 Ereparing a speech about political economy. At times 
 er voice could be heard declaiming through the floor. 
 "But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man, don't 
 
liO E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 you think? Then there's Guy. That was a pitiful busi- 
 ness. Besides"— shifting to the general— "everyone is 
 the better for some regular work." 
 
 Groans. 
 
 "I shall stick to it," she continued, smiling. "I am 
 not saying it to educate you; it is what I really think. I 
 believe that in the last century men have developed 
 the desire for work, and they must not starve it. It's a 
 new desire. It goes with a great deal that's bad, but in 
 itself it's good, and I hope that for women, too, 'not to 
 work' will soon become as shocking as 'not to be mar- 
 ried' was a hundred years ago." 
 
 "I have no experience of this profound desire to 
 which you allude," enunciated Tibby. 
 
 "Then we'll leave the subject till you do. I'm not 
 going to rattle you round. Take your time. Only do 
 think over the lives of the men you like most, and see 
 how they've arranged them." 
 
 "I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most," said Tibby .faintly, 
 and leant so far back in his chair that he extended in a 
 horizontal line from knees to throat. 
 
 "And don't think I'm not serious because I don't use 
 the traditional arguments— making money, a sphere 
 awaiting you, and so on— all of which are, for various 
 reasons, cant." She sewed on. "I'm only your sister. I 
 haven't any authority over you, and I don't want to 
 have any. Just to put before you what I think the truth. 
 You see"— she shook o£E the pince-nez to which she had 
 recently taken— "in a few years we shall be the same 
 age practically, and I shall want you to help me. Men 
 are so much. nicer than women." 
 
 "Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not 
 marry?" 
 
 "I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the 
 chance." 
 
 "Has nobody arst you?" 
 
 "Only ninnies." 
 
 "Do people ask Helen?" 
 
 "Plentifully." 
 
Howards End iii 
 
 "Tell me about them." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Tell me about your ninnies, then." 
 
 "They were men who had nothing better to do," said 
 his sister, feeling that she was entitled to S9ore this 
 point. "So take warning: you must work, or else you 
 must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work, 
 work it you'd save your soul and your body. It is hon- 
 estly a necessity, dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes, look 
 at Mr. Pembroke. With all their defects of temper and 
 understanding, such men give me more pleasure than 
 many who are better equipped, and I think it is because 
 they have worked regularly and honestly." 
 
 "Spare me the Wilcoxes," he moaned. 
 
 "I shall not. They are the right sort." 
 
 "Oh, goodness me, Meg!" he protested, suddenly 
 sitting up, alert and angry. Tibby, for all his defects, 
 had a genuine personality. 
 
 "Well, they're as near the right sort as you can imag- 
 ine." 
 
 "No, no— oh, no!" 
 
 "I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once 
 classed as a ninny, but who came back so ill trom Ni- 
 geria. He's gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me 
 —out 'to his duty." 
 
 "Duty" always elicited a groan. 
 
 "He doesn't want the money, it is work he wants, 
 though it is beastly work— dull country, dishonest na- 
 tives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food. A 
 nation who can produce men of that sort may well be 
 proud. No wonder England has become an Empire." 
 
 "Empire!" 
 
 "I can't bother over results," said Margaret, a little 
 sadly. "They are too difficult for me. I can only look at 
 the men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I can appre- 
 ciate the heroism that builds it up. London bores me, 
 but what thousands of splendid people are labouring to 
 m^ke London—" 
 
 "What it is," he sneered. 
 
112 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civil- 
 ization. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we 
 shall find in heaven." 
 
 "And I," said Tibby, "want civilization without ac- 
 tivity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the other 
 place." 
 
 "You needn't go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, 
 if you want that. You can find it at Oxford." 
 
 "Stupid-" 
 
 "If I'm stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I'll 
 even live in Oxford if you like— North Oxford. I'll live 
 anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and Chelten- 
 ham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tun- 
 bridge Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There on no 
 account," 
 
 "London, then." 
 
 "I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from 
 London. However, there's no reason we shouldn't have 
 a house in the country and also a flat in town, provided 
 we all stick together and contribute. Though of course 
 — Oh, how one does maunder on, and to think, to 
 think of the people who are really poor. How do they 
 live? Not to move about the world would kill me." 
 
 As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen 
 burst in in a state of extreme excitement. 
 
 "Oh, my dears, what do you think? You'll never guess. 
 A woman's been here asking me for her husband. Her 
 what?" (Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise.) 
 "Yes, for her husband, and it really is so." 
 
 "Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Mar- 
 garet, who had lately taken on an unemployed of that 
 name to clean the Imives and boots. 
 
 "I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was 
 Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It's no one we know. I said: 
 'Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt 
 under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the 
 antimacassars. Husband? husband?' Oh, and she so 
 magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier." 
 
 "Now, Helen, what did happen really?" 
 
Howards End n^ 
 
 "What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. 
 Annie opens the door like a tool, and shows a female 
 straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we be- 
 gan—very civilly. 'I want my husband, what I have 
 reason to believe is here.' No— how unjust one is. She 
 said 'whom,' not 'what.' She got it perfectly. So I said: 
 'Name, please?' and she said: 'Lan, Miss,' and there 
 we were." 
 
 "Lan?" 
 
 "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. 
 Lanoline." 
 
 "But what an extraordinary—" 
 
 "I said: 'My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave 
 misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty 
 is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, 
 never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine.' " 
 
 "I hope you were pleased," said Tibby. 
 
 "Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightful, 
 experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline's a dear— she asked for a ' j 
 husband as if he was an umbrella. She mislaid him Satur- 
 day afternoon— and for a long time suffered no incon- ] 
 venience. But all night, and all this morning her ap- 
 prehensions grew. Breakfast didn't seem the same— no, 
 no more did lunch, and so she strolled up to 2 Wickham 
 Place as being the most likely place for the missing 
 article." 
 
 "But how on earth—" 
 
 "Dbn't begin how on earthing. 'I know what I know,' 
 she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme 
 gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some 
 knew what others knew, and others didn't, and if they 
 didn't, then others again had better be careful. Oh dear, 
 she was incompetent! She had a face like a silkworm, 
 and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We chatted 
 pleasantly a little about husbands, and I wondered 
 where hers was too, and advised her to go to the police. 
 She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanoline's a notty, 
 notty man, and hasn't no business to go on the lardy-da. 
 But I think she suspected me up to the last. Bags I 
 
11^ E. M. FORSTER 
 
 writing to Aunt Juley about this. Now, Meg, remember 
 -bags I." 
 
 "Bag it by all means," murmured Margaret, putting 
 down her work. "I'm not sure that this is so funny, 
 Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking some- 
 where, doesn't it?" 
 
 "I don't think so— she doesn't really mind. The ad- 
 mirable creature isn't capable of tragedy." 
 
 "Her husband may be, though," said Margaret, mov- 
 ing to the window. 
 
 "Oh, no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could 
 have married Mrs. Lanoline." 
 
 "Was she pretty?" 
 
 "Her figure may have been good once." 
 
 The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate 
 curtain between Margaret and the welter of London. 
 Her thoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham 
 Place had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that 
 her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and 
 squalor, into nearer contact with 3uch episodes as these. 
 
 "Tibby and I have again been wondering where we'll 
 live next September," she said at last. 
 
 "Tibby had better first wonder what he'll do," re- 
 torted Helen; and that topic was resumed, but with 
 acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen went on 
 preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, too, 
 for they were going out to a discussion society on the 
 morrow. But her dioughts were poisoned. Mrs. Lano- 
 line had risen out of the abyss, like a faint smell, a gpb- 
 lin footfall, telling of a life where love and hatred had 
 both decayed. 
 
Howards End 1x5 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained. 
 Next day, just as they were dressed to go out to din- 
 ner, a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the employ- 
 ment of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus 
 much from his card. He had come "about the lady yes- 
 terday." Thus much from Annie, who had shown him 
 into the dining-room. 
 "Cheers, children!" cried Helen. "It's Mrs. Lanoline." 
 Tibby was interested. Tlie three hurried downstairs, 
 to find, not the gay dog they expected, but a young 
 man, colourless, toneless, who had already the mourn- 
 ful eyes above a drooping moustache that are so com- 
 mon in London, and that haunt some streets of the 
 city like' accusing presences. One guessed him as the 
 third generation, grandson to the shepherd or plough- 
 boy whom civilization had sucked into the town; as 
 one of the thousands who have lost the life of the body 
 and failed to reach the life of the spirit. Hints of ro- 
 bustness survived in him, more than a hint of primitive 
 good looks, and Margaret, noting the spine that might 
 have been straight, and the chest that might have 
 broadened, wondered whether it paid to give up the 
 glory of the animal for a tail coat and a couple of ideas. 
 Culture had worked in her own case, but during the last 
 few weeks she had doubted whether it humanized the 
 majority, so wide and so widening is the gulf that 
 stretches between the natural and the philosophic man, 
 so many the good chaps who are wrecked in trying to 
 cross it. She knew this type very well— the vague aspira- 
 tions, the mental dishonesty, the familiarity with the 
 outsides of books. She knew the very tones in which he 
 would address her. She was only unprepared for an ex- 
 ample of her own visiting-card. 
 
H6 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "You wouldn't remember giving me this. Miss 
 Schlegel?" said he, uneasily familiar. 
 
 "No; I can't say I do." 
 
 "Well, that was how it happened, you see." 
 
 "Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For a minute I don't 
 remember." 
 
 "It was a concert at the Queen's Hall. I think you 
 will recollect," he added pretentiously, "when I tell you 
 that it included a performance of the Fifth Symphony 
 of Beethoven." 
 
 "We hear the Fifth practically every time it's done, so 
 I'm not sure — do you remember, Helen?" 
 
 "Was it tie time the sandy cat walked round the 
 balustrade?" 
 
 He thought not. 
 
 "Then I don't remember. That's the only Beethoven 
 I ever remember specially." 
 
 "And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, 
 inadvertently of course." 
 
 "Likely enough," Helen laughed, "for I steal umbrel- 
 las even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you get it 
 back?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you. Miss Schlegel." 
 
 "The mistake arose but of my card, did it?" in- 
 terposed Margaret. 
 
 "Yes, the mistake arose— it was a mistake." 
 
 "The lady who called here yesterday thought that 
 you were calling too, and that she could find you?" she 
 continued, pushing him forward, for, though he had 
 promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one, 
 
 "That's so, calling too— a mistake." 
 
 "Then why—?" began Helen, but Margaret laid a 
 hand on her arm. 
 
 "I said to my wife," he continued more rapidly— "I 
 said to Mrs. Bast: 'I have to pay a call on some 
 friends,' and Mrs. Bast said to me: 'Do go.' While I 
 was gone, however, she wanted me on important busi- 
 ness, and thought I had come here, owing to the card, 
 and so came after me, and I beg to tender my apologies. 
 
Howards End iiy 
 
 and hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have 
 inadvertently caused you." 
 
 "No inconvenience," said Helen; "but I still don't 
 understand." 
 
 An air of evasion characterized Mr. Bast. He ex- 
 plained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen 
 didn't see why he should get off. She had the cruelty 
 of youth. Neglecting her sister's pressure, she said: "I 
 still don't understand. When did you say you paid this 
 call?" 
 
 "Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question 
 had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in 
 mid-stream. 
 
 "This afternoon call." 
 
 "In the afternoon, of coune!" he replied, and looked 
 at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby, 
 himself a repartee, was unsympathetic, and said: "Sat- 
 urday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?" 
 
 "S-Saturday." 
 
 "Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on 
 Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit." 
 
 "I don't call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet 
 and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know 
 what you mean, and it isn't so." 
 
 "Oh, don't let us mind," said Margaret, distressed 
 again by odours from the abyss. 
 
 "It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate 
 manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to 
 what yOu think, so there!" 
 
 "It was good of you to come and explain," she said. 
 "The rest is naturally no concern of ours." 
 
 "Yes, but I want— I wanted— have you ever read The 
 Ordeal of Richard Feverel?" 
 
 Margaret nodded. 
 ' "It's a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the 
 Earth, don't you see, like Richard does in the end. Or 
 have you ever read Stevenson's Prince Otto?" 
 
 Helen and Tibby groaned gently. 
 
 "That's another beautiful book. You get back to the 
 
Il8 ' E. M. rORSTER 
 
 Earth in that. I wanted—" He mouthed affectedly. 
 Then through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, 
 hard as a pebble. "I walked all the Saturday night," said 
 Leonard. "I walked." A thrill of approval ran through 
 the sisters. But culture closed in again. He asked 
 whether they had ever read E. V. Lucas's Open Road- 
 Said Helen: "No doubt it's another beautiful book, 
 but I'd rather hear about your road." 
 
 "Oh, I walked." 
 
 "How far?" 
 
 "I don't know, nor for how long. It got too dark to 
 see my watch." 
 
 "Were you walking alone, may I ask?" 
 
 'Tes," he said, straightening himself; "but we'd been 
 talking it over at the o£Ece. There's been a lot of talk 
 at the office lately about these things. The fellows there . 
 said one steers by the Pole Star, and I looked it up in 
 the celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets 
 so mixed—" 
 
 "Don't talk fo me about the Pole Star," interrupted 
 Helen, who was becoming interested. "I know its little 
 ways. It goes round and round, and you go round after 
 it." 
 
 "Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps, 
 then the trees, and towards morning it got cloudy," 
 
 Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped 
 from Ihe room. He knew that this fellow would never 
 attain to poetry, and did not want to liear him trying. 
 Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother influenc^ 
 them more than they knew: in his absence they were 
 stined to enthusiasm more easily. 
 
 "Where did you start from?" gried Margaret. "Do 
 tell us more." 
 
 "I took the underground to Wimbledon. As I came 
 out of the office I said to myself: T must have a walk 
 once in a way. If I don't take this walk now, I shall 
 never take it.' I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, 
 and then—" 
 
 "But not good country there, is it?" 
 
Howards End iig 
 
 "It \yas gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night, 
 and being out was the great thing. I did get into woods, 
 too, presently." 
 
 "Yes, go on," said Helen. 
 
 "You've no idea how difficult uneven ground is when 
 it's dark." 
 
 "Did you actually go off the roads?" 
 
 "Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but the L 
 worst of it is that it's more. difficult to find one's way.'^ 
 
 "Mr. Bast, you're a bom adventurer," laughed Mar- 
 garet. "No professional athlete would have attempted 
 what you've done. It's a wonder your walk didn't end in 
 a broken neck. Whatever did your wife say?" 
 
 "Professional athletes never move without lanterns 
 and compasses," said Helen. "Besides, they can't walk. 
 It tires them. Go on." 
 
 "I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how in 
 Vir^nibus—" 
 
 "Yes, but the wood. This 'ere wood. How did you 
 get out of it?" 
 
 "I managed one wood, and found a road the other 
 side which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it was 
 those North Downs, for the road went off into grass, 
 and I got into another wood. That was awful, with 
 gorse bushes. I did wish I'd never come, but suddenly it 
 got light — just while I seemed going under one tree. 
 Then I found a road down to a station, and took the 
 first train I could back to London." 
 
 "But was the dawn wonderful?" asked Helen. 
 
 With unforgettable sincerity he replied: "No." The 
 word flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down top- 
 pled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in his talk, 
 down toppled tiresome R. L. S: and the "love of the 
 earth" and his silk top-hat. In the presence of these 
 women Leonard had arrived, and he spoke with a flow, 
 an exultation, that he had seldom known. 
 
 "The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to men- 
 tion-" 
 
 "fust a grey evening turned upside down. I know.'' 
 
120 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "—and I was too tired to lift up my head to look a1 
 it, and so cold too. I'm glad I did it, and yet at the time 
 it bored me more than 1 can say. And besides— you can 
 believe me or not as you choose— I was yery hungry. 
 That dinner at Wimbledon— I meant it to last me all 
 night like other dinners. I never thought that walking 
 would make such a difference. Why, when you're walk- 
 ing you want, as it were, a breakfast and luncheon and 
 tea during the night as well, and I'd nothing but a 
 packet of Woodbines. Lord, I did feel bad! Looking 
 back, it wasn't what you may call enjoyment. It was 
 more a case of sticking to it. I did stick. I — I was de- 
 termined. Oh, hang it all! what's the good— I mean, 
 the good of living in a room for ever? "There one goes 
 on day after day, same old game, same up and down to 
 town, until you forget there is any other game. You 
 ought to see once in a way what's going on outside, if 
 it's only nothing particular after all." 
 
 "I should just think you ought," said Helen, sitting 
 on the edge of the table. 
 
 The sound of a lady's voice recalled him from sin- 
 cerity, and he said: "Curious it should all come about 
 from reading something of Richard Jefferies." 
 
 "Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you're wrong there. It 
 didn't. It came from something far greater." 
 
 But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent 
 after Jefferies— Bonow, tTioreau, and sorrow. R. L. S. 
 brought up the rear, and the outljurst ended in a swamp 
 of books. No disrespect to these great names. The fault 
 is ours, not theirs. They mean us to use them for sign- 
 posts, and are not to blame if, in our weakness, we mis- 
 take the sign-post for the destination.. And Leonard 
 had reached the destination. He had visited the county 
 of Suney when darkness covered its amenities, and its 
 cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every twelve 
 hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go 
 and see for himself. Within his cramped little mind 
 dwelt something that was greater than Jefferies's books 
 —the spirit that led Jefferies to write them; and his 
 
Howards End 121 
 
 dawn, though reveahng nothing but monotones, was 
 part of the eternal sunrise that shows George Borrow 
 Stonehenge. 
 
 "Then you don't think I was foolish?" he asked, be- 
 coming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for 
 whom Nature had intended him. 
 
 "Heavens, no!" replied Margaret 
 
 "Heaven help us if we do!" replied Helen. 
 
 "I'm very glad you say that. Now, my wife would 
 never understand — not if I explained for days." 
 
 "No, it wasn't foolish!" cried Helen, her eyes aflame. 
 "You've pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid 
 of you." 
 
 "You've not been content to dream, as we have—" 
 
 "Though we have walked, too—" 
 
 "I must show you a picture upstairs—" 
 
 Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to 
 take them to their evening party. 
 
 "Oh, bother, not to say dash— I had forgotten we 
 were dining out; but do, do come round again and have 
 a talk." 
 
 'Tes, you must— do," echoed Margaret. 
 
 Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I 
 shall not. It's better like this." 
 
 "Why better?" asked Margaret. 
 
 "No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I 
 shall always look back on this talk with you as one of 
 the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can 
 never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we 
 had better leave it." 
 
 "That's rather a sad view of life, surely." 
 
 "Things so often get spoiled." 
 
 "I know," flashed Helen, "but people don't." 
 
 He could not understand this. He continued in a 
 vein which mingled true imagination and false. What 
 he said wasn't wrong, but it wasn't right, and a false 
 note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instru- 
 ment might be in tune. One little strain, and it might 
 be silpnt for ever. He thanked the ladies very much, but 
 
122 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 he would not call again. There was a moment's awk- 
 wardness, and then Helen said: "Go, then; perhaps you 
 know best; but never forget you're better than Jef- 
 feries." And he went. Their hansom caught him up at 
 the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and vanished 
 with its accomplished load into the evening. 
 
 London was beginning to illuminate herself against 
 the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main 
 thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered 
 a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battle- 
 field of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke 
 mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down Oxford 
 Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned 
 while it did not distract. She has never known the 
 clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried 
 through her tinted wonders, very much part of, the pic- 
 ture. His was a grey life, and to brighten it he had ruled 
 off a few corners for romance. The Miss Schlegels— or, 
 to speak more accurately, his interview with them— 
 were to fill such a comer, nor was it by any means the 
 first time that he had talked intimately to strangen. 
 The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet, 
 though the worst of outlets, for instincts that would not 
 be denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his sus- 
 picions and prudence until he was confiding secrets to 
 people wbom he had scarcely seen. It brought him 
 many fears and some pleasant memories. Perhaps the 
 keenest happiness he had ever known was during a rail- 
 way journey to Cambridge, where a decent-mannered 
 undergraduate had spoken to him. They had got into 
 conversation, and gradually Leonard flung reticence 
 aside, told some of his domestic troubles, and hinted at 
 the rest. The undergraduate, supposing they could start 
 a friendship, asked him to "coffee after hall," which he 
 accepted, but afterwards grew shy, and took care not 
 to stir from the commercial hotel where he lodged. He 
 did not want Romance to collide with the Porphyrion, 
 still less with Jacky, and people with fuller, happier lives 
 are slow to understand this. To the Schlegels, as to the 
 
Howards End 123 
 
 undergraduate, he was an interesting creature, of whom 
 they wanted to see more. But they to him were denizens 
 of Romance, who must keep to the comer he had as- 
 signed them, pictures that must not walk out of their 
 frames. 
 
 His behaviour over Margaret's Visiting-card had been 
 typical. His had scarcely been a tragic maniage. Where 
 there is no money and no inclination to violence, 
 tragedy cannot be generated. He could not leave his 
 wife, and he did not want to hit her. Petulance and 
 squalor were enough. Here "that card" had come in. 
 Leonard, though furtive, was untidy, and left it lying 
 about. Jacky found it, and then began: "What's that 
 card, eh?" "Yes, don't you wish you knew what that 
 card was?" "Len, who's Miss Schlegel?" etc. Months 
 passed, and the card, now as a joke, now as a grievance, 
 was handed about, getting dirtier and dirtier. It 
 followed them when they moved from Camelia Road 
 to Tulse Hill. It was submitted to third parties. A few 
 inches of pasteboard, it became the battlefield on which 
 the souls of Leonard and his wife contended. Why did 
 he not say: "A lady took my umbrella, another gave me 
 this that I might call for my umbrella"? Because Jacky 
 would have disbelieved him? Partly, but chiefly because 
 he was sentimental. No affection gathered round the 
 card, but it symbolized the life of culture, that Jacky 
 should never spoil. At night he would say to himself: 
 "Well, at all events, she doesn't know about that card. 
 Yah! done her there!" 
 
 Poor Jacky! she was not a bad sort, and had a great 
 deal to bear. She drew her own conclusion— she was 
 only capable of drawing one conclusion— and in the 
 fulness of time she acted upon it. All the Friday 
 Leonard had refused to speak to her, and had spent the 
 evening observing the stars. On the Saturday he went 
 up, as usual, to town, but he came not back Saturday 
 night nor Sunday morning, nor Sunday afternoon. The 
 inconvenience grew intolerable, and though she was 
 now of a retiring habit^ and shy of women, she went 
 
124 ^' **• ^O^STER 
 
 up to Wickham Place. Leonard returned in her absence. 
 The card, the fatal card, was -gone from the pages of 
 Ruskin, and he guessed what had happened. 
 
 "Well?" he had exclaimed,, greeting her with peals of 
 lajighter. "I know where you've been, but you don't 
 know where I've been." 
 
 Jacky sighed, said: "Len, I do think you might ex- 
 plain," and resumed domesticity. 
 
 Explanations were difficult at this stage, and Leon- 
 ard was too silly— or, it is tempting to write, too sound 
 —a chap to attempt them. His reticence was not en- 
 tirely the shoddy article that a business life promotes, 
 the reticence that pretends that nothing is something, 
 and hides behind the Daily Telegraph. The adventurer, 
 "also, is reticent, and it is an adventure for a clerk to 
 walk for a few hours in darkness. You may laugh at him, 
 you who have slept nights out on the veldt, with your 
 rifle beside you and all the atmosphere of adventure 
 pat. And you also may laugh who think adventures silly. 
 But do not be surprised if Leonard is shy whenevet he 
 meets you, and if the Schlegels rather than Jacky hear 
 about the dawn. 
 
 That the Schlegels had not thought him foolish be- 
 came a permanent joy. He was at his best when he 
 thought of them. It buoyed him as he journeyed home 
 beneath fading heavens. Somehow the barriers of 
 wealth had fallen, and there had been— he could not 
 phrase it— a general assertion of the wonder of the 
 world. "My conviction," says the mystic, "gains in- 
 finitely the moment another soul will believe in it," 
 apd they had agreed that there was something beyond 
 life's daily grey. He took off his top-hat and smoothed 
 it thoughtfully. He had hitherto supposed the un- 
 known to be books, literature, clever conversation, cul- 
 ture. One raised oneself by study, and got upsides with 
 the world. But in that quick interchange a new light 
 dawned. Was that "something" walking in the dark 
 among the suburban hills? 
 
 He discovered that he was going bareheaded down 
 
Howards End laj 
 
 Regent Street. London came back with a rush. Few 
 were about at this hour, but all whom he passed 
 looked at him with a hostility that was the more im- 
 pressive because it was unconscious. He put his hat on. 
 It was too big; his head disappeared like a pudding into 
 a basin, the ears bending outwards at the touch of the 
 curly brim. He wore it a little backwards, and its ef- 
 fect was greatly to elongate the face and to bring out 
 the distance between the eyes and the moustache. Thus 
 equipped, he escaped criticism. No one felt uneasy as 
 he titupped along the pavements, the heart of a man 
 ticking fast in his chest. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 The sisters went out to dinner full of their adventure, 
 and when they were both full of the same subject, there 
 were few dinner-parties that could stand up against 
 them. This particular one, which was all ladies, had 
 more kick in it than most, but succumbed after a strug- 
 gle. Helen at one part of the table, Margaret at the 
 other, would talk of Mr. Bast and of no one else, and 
 somewhere about the entree their monologues col- 
 lided, fell ruining, and became common property. Nor 
 was this all. The dinner-party was really an informal 
 discussion club; there was a paper after it, read amid 
 cofiEee-cups and laughter in the drawing-room, but deal- 
 ing more or less thoughtfully with Some topic of general 
 interest. After the paper came a debate, and in this de- 
 bate Mr. Bast also figured, appearing now as a bright 
 spot in civilization, now as a dark spot, according to 
 the temperament of the speaker. The subject of the 
 paper had been "How ought I to dispose of my 
 money?" the reader professing to be a iriillionaire on 
 the point of death, inclined to bequeath her fortune for 
 the foundation of local art galleries, but open to con- 
 
126 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 vic^ion from other sources. The various parts had been 
 assigned beforehand, and some of the speeches were 
 amusing. The hostess assumed the ungrateful r61e of 
 "the millionaire's eldest son," and implored her expir- 
 ing parent not to dislocate Society by allowing such 
 vast sums to pass out of the family. Money was the frait 
 of self-denial, and the second generation had a right to 
 profit by the self-denial of the first. What right had 
 "Mr. Bast" to profit? The National Gallery was good 
 enough for the likes of him. After property had had its 
 say— a saying that is necessarily ungracious— the var- 
 ious philanthropists stepped forward. Something must 
 be done for "Mr. Bast": his conditions must be im- 
 proved without impairing his independence; he must 
 have a free library, or free tennis-courts; his rent must 
 be paid in such a way that he did not know it was be- 
 ing paid; it must be made worth his while to join 
 the Territorials; he must be forcibly parted from his un- 
 inspiring wife, the money going to her as a compensa- 
 tion; he must be assigned a Twin Star, some member 
 of the leisured classes who would watch over him cease- 
 lessly (groans from Helen); he must be given food but 
 no clothes, clothes but no food, a third-return ticket to 
 Venice, without either food or clothes when he arrived 
 there. In short, he might be given anything and every- 
 thing so long as it was not the money itself. 
 
 And here Margaret interrupted. 
 
 "Order, order. Miss Schlegell" said the reader of the 
 paper. "You are here, I understand, to advise me in the 
 interests of the Society for the Preservation ot Places of 
 Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. I cannot have you 
 speaking out of your r61e. It makes my poor head go 
 round, and I think you forget that I airi very ill." 
 
 'Tour head won't go round if only you'll listen to 
 my argument," said Margaret. "Why not give him the 
 money itself? You're supposed to have about thirty 
 thousand a year." 
 
 "Have I? I thought I had a million." 
 
 "Wasn't a million your capital? Dear me! we ought 
 
Howards End 127 
 
 to have settled that. Still, it doesn't matter. Whatever 
 you've got, I order you to give as many poor men as you 
 can three hundred a year each." 
 
 "But that would be pauperizing them," said an ear- 
 nest girl, who liked the Schlegels but thought them a 
 little unspiritual at times. 
 
 "Not if you gave them so much. A big windfall would 
 not pauperize a man. It is these little driblets, distribu- 
 ted among too many, that do the harm. Money's edu- 
 cational. It's far more educational than the things it 
 buys." There was a protest. "In a sense," added Mar- 
 garet, but the protest continued. "Well, isn't the most 
 civilized thing going, the man who has learnt to wear 
 his income properly?" 
 
 "Exactly what your Mr. Basts won't do." 
 
 "Give them a chance. Give them money. Don't dole 
 them out poetry-books and railway-tickets like babies. 
 Give them the wherewithal to buy these things. When 
 your Socialism comes, it may be different, and we may 
 think in terms of commodities instead of cash. Till it 
 comes, give people cash, for it is the warp of civili- 
 zation, whatever the woof may be. The imagination 
 ought to play upon money and realize it, vividly, for it's 
 the— the second" most important thing in the world. It 
 is so slurred over and hushed up, there is so little clear 
 thinking— oh, political economy, of course, but so few 
 of us think clearly about our own private incomes, and 
 admit that independent thoughts are in nine cases out 
 of ten the result of independent means. Money: give 
 Mr. Bast money, and don't bother about his ideals 
 He'll pick up those for himself." 
 
 She leant back while the more earnest members of 
 the club began to misconstrue her. The female mind, \ 
 though cruelly practical in daily life, cannot bear to hear 
 ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel was 
 asked however she could say such dreadful things, and 
 what it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole 
 world and lost his own soul. She answered: "Nothing, 
 but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a 
 
128 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 little of the world." Then they said no they did not be- 
 lieve it, and she admitted that an overworked clerk may 
 save his soul in the superterrestrial sense, where the ef- 
 fort will be taken for the deed, but she denied that he 
 v(dll ever explore the spiritual resources of this world, 
 will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain 
 to clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows. 
 Others had attacked the fabric of Society— Property, 
 Interest, etc.; she only fixed her eyes on a few human 
 beings, to see how, under present conditions, they could 
 be made happier. Doing good to humanity was useless: 
 the many-coloured efforts thereto spreading over the 
 vast area like films and resulting in a universal grey. To 
 do good to one, or, as in this case, to a few, was the ut- 
 most she dare hope for. 
 
 Between the idealists and the political economists, 
 Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they 
 agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the administra- 
 tion of the millionaire's money in their own hands. The 
 earnest girl brought forward a scheme of "personal su- 
 pervision and mutual help," the effect of which was to 
 alter poor people until they became exactly like people 
 who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently re- 
 marked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among 
 the millionaire's legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the 
 claim, and another claihi was at once set up by Helen, 
 who declared that she had been the millionaire's 
 housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; 
 was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? 
 The millionaire then read out her last vwll and testa- 
 ment, in which she left the whole of her fortune to the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The se- 
 rious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit 
 than the playful— in a men's debate is the reverse more 
 general?— but the meeting broke up hilariously enough, 
 and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. 
 
 Helen and Margaret walked the earnest girl as far 
 as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the 
 way. When she had gone they were conscious of an al- 
 
Howards End 129 
 
 leviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They 
 turned tack towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the 
 plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, 
 struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. 
 The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occu- 
 pied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled 
 out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the 
 whisper of the rising tide. There is something Conti- 
 nental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space 
 used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than 
 here. As Margaret and Helen sat 'down, the city behind 
 them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in 
 which some endless trilogy was performing, and they 
 themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers who did not 
 mind losing a little of the second act. 
 
 "Cold?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Tired?" 
 
 "Doesn't matter." 
 
 The earnest girl's' train rumbled away over the 
 bridge. 
 
 "I say, Helen-" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Are we really gomg to follow up Mr. Bast?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "T think we won't." 
 
 "As you like." 
 
 "It's no good, I think, unless you really mean to 
 know people. The discussion brought that home to 
 me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of ex- 
 citement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn't 
 play at friendship. No, it's no good." 
 
 "There's Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So 
 dull." 
 
 "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." 
 
 "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." 
 
 "But he said— something about a concert and an um- 
 brella— 
 
 "Then did the card see the wife—" 
 
lya E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Helen, come to bed." 
 
 "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; 
 oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then what's the woof?" 
 
 "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "If s 
 something that isn't money— one can't say more." 
 
 "Walking at night?" 
 
 "Probably." 
 
 "Fpr Tibby, Oxford?" 
 
 "It seems so." 
 
 "For you?" 
 
 "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin 
 to think it's that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly How- 
 ards End." 
 
 One's own name will carry immense distances. Mr. 
 Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, 
 heard his, rose to his ieet, and strolled along towards 
 the speakers. 
 
 "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more 
 important than people," continued Margaret. 
 
 "Why, Meg? They're so much nicer gene^:ally. I'd 
 rather think of that forester's house in Pomerania than 
 of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it." 
 
 "I believe we shall come to care about people less 
 and less, Helen. The more people one knows, the easier 
 it becomes to replace them. Ifs one of the curses of 
 London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for 
 a place." 
 
 Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks 
 since they had met. 
 
 "How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I recognized 
 your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here?" 
 
 His tones were protective. He implied that one ought 
 not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a male 
 escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it 
 as part of the good man's equipment. 
 
 "What afi" age it is since I've seen you, Mr. Wilcox. 
 
Howards End 131 
 
 I met Evie in the tube, though, lately. I hope you have 
 good news of your son." 
 
 "Paul?" said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette 
 and sitting down between them. "Oh, Paul's all right. 
 We had a line from Madeira. He'll be at work again l>y 
 now." 
 
 ^'Ugh— " said Helen, shuddering from complex 
 causes. 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" 
 
 "Isn't the climate of Nigeria too horrible?" 
 
 "Someone's got to go," he said simply. "England will 
 never keep her trade overseas unless she is prepared to 
 make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in West Africa, 
 Ger— untold complications may follow. Now tell me all 
 your news." 
 
 "Oh, we've had a splendid evening," cried Helen, 
 who always woke up at the advent of a visitor. "We be- 
 long to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret and 
 I — all women, but there is a discussion after. This eve- 
 ning it was on how one ought to leave one's money— 
 whether to one's family, or to the poor, and if so how— 
 oh, most interesting." 
 
 The man of business smiled. Since his wife's death 
 he had almost doubled his income. He was an im- 
 portant figure at last, a reassuring name on company 
 prospectuses, and life had treated him very well. The 
 world seemed in his grasp as he listened to the River 
 Thames, which still flowed inland from the sea. So won- 
 derful to the girls, it held no mysteries for him. He had 
 helped to shorten its long tidal trough by taking shares 
 in the lock at Teddington, and if he and other capi- 
 talists thought good, some day it could be shortened 
 again. With a good dinner inside him and an amiable 
 but academic woman on either flank, he felt that his 
 hands were on all the ropes of life, and that what he 
 did not know could not be worth knowing. 
 
 "Sounds a most original entertainment!" he ex- 
 claimed, and laughed in his pleasant way. "I wish Evie 
 
122 E. M. FOES1ER 
 
 would go to that sort of thing. But she hasn't the time. 
 She's taken to breeding Aberdeen terriers— jolly little 
 dogs." 
 
 "I expect we'd better be doing the same, really." 
 
 "We pretend we're improving ourselves, you see," 
 said Helen a little sharply, for the Wilcox glamour is 
 not of the kind that returns, and she had bitter mem- 
 ories of the days when a speech such as he had just 
 made would have impressed her favourably. "We sup- 
 pose it is a good thing to waste an evening once a fort- 
 night over a debate, but, as my sister says, it may be 
 better to breed dogs." 
 
 "Not at all. I don't agree with your sister. There's 
 nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often 
 wish I had gone in for them when I was a youngster. It 
 would have helped me no end." 
 
 "Quickness—?" 
 
 "Yes. Quickness in argument. Time after time I've 
 missed scoring a point because the other man has had 
 the gift of the gab and I haven't. Oh, I believe in these 
 discussions." 
 
 The patronizing tone, thought Margaret, came well 
 enough from a man who was old enough to be their 
 father. She had always maintained that Mr. Wilcox had 
 a charm. In times of sorrow or emotion his inadequacy 
 had pained her, but it was pleasant to~listen to him 
 now; and to watch his thick browp moustache and high 
 forehead confronting the stars. But Helen was nettled. 
 The aim of their debates, she implied, was truth. 
 
 "Oh yes, it doesn't much matter what subject you 
 take," said he. 
 
 Margaret laughed and said: "But this is going to be 
 far better than the debate itself." 
 
 Helen recovered herself and laughed too. ^'No I 
 won't go on," she declared. "I'll just put our special 
 case to Mr. Wilcox." 
 
 "About Mr. Bast? Yes, do. He'll be more lenient to 
 a special case." 
 
 "But, Mr. Wilcox, do first light another ci^rette. 
 
Howards End 122 
 
 It's this. We've just come across a young fellow who's 
 evidently very poor, and who seems interest—" 
 
 "What's his profession?" 
 
 "Clerk." 
 
 "What in?" 
 
 "Do you remember, Margaret?" 
 
 "Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company." 
 
 "Oh yes; the nice people who gave Aunt Juley a new 
 hearth-rug. He seems interesting, in some ways very, 
 and one wishes one could help him. He is married to a 
 wife whom he doesn't seem to care for much. He likes 
 books, and what one may roughly call adventure, and 
 if he had a chance^ But he is so poor. He lives a life 
 where all the money is apt to go on nonsense and 
 clothes. One is so afraid that circumstances will be too 
 strong for him and that he will sink. Well, he got mixed 
 up in our debate. He wasn't the subject of it, but it 
 seemed to bear on his point. Suppose a millionaire died, 
 and desired to leave money to help such a man. How 
 should he be helped? Should he be given three hun- 
 dred pounds a year direct, which was Margaret's plan? 
 Most of thein thought this would <pauperize)him. 
 Should he and those like him be given free libraries? I 
 said 'No!' He doesn't want more books to read, but to 
 read books rightly. My suggestion was he should be 
 given something every year towards a summer holiday, 
 but then there is his wife, and they said she would have 
 to go too. Nothing seemed quite right! Now, what do 
 you think? Imagine that you were a millionaire, and 
 wanted to help the poor. What would you do?" 
 
 Mr. Wilcox, whose fortune was not so very far below 
 the standard indicated, laughed exuberantly. "My dear 
 Miss Schlegel, I will not rush in where your sex has 
 been unable to tread. I will not add another plan to 
 the numerous excellent ones that have been already 
 suggested. My only contribution is this: let your young 
 friend clear out of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Com- 
 pany with all possible speed." 
 
 "Why?" said Margaret. 
 
124 E. ^I. FORSTER 
 
 He lowered his voice. "This is between friends. Itll 
 be in the receiver's hands before Christmas. It'll smash," 
 he added, thinking that she had not understood. 
 
 "Dear me, Helen, listen to that. And he'll have to 
 get another placel" 
 
 "Will have? Let him leave the ship before it sinks. 
 Let him get one now." 
 
 "Rather than wait, to make sure?" 
 
 "Decidedly." 
 
 "Why's that?" 
 
 Again the Olympian laugh, and the lowered voice. 
 "Naturally the man who's in a situation when he ap- 
 plies stands a better chance, is in a stronger position, 
 than the man who isn't. It looks as if he's worth some- 
 thing. I know by myself— (this is letting you into the 
 State secrets)— it affects an employer greatly. Human 
 nature, I'm afraid." 
 
 *'I hadn't thought of that," murmured Margaret, 
 while Helen said: "Our human nature appears to be 
 the other way round. We employ people because they're 
 unemployed. The boot man, for instance." 
 
 "And how does he clean the boots?" 
 
 "Not well," confessed Margaret. 
 
 "There you are!" 
 
 "Then do you really advise us to tell this youth—" 
 
 "I advise nothing," he interrupted, glancing up and 
 down the Embanlanent, in case his indiscretion had 
 been overheard. "I oughtn't to have spoken— but I 
 happen to know, being more or less behind the scenes. 
 The Porphyrion's a bad, bad concern. Now, don't say 
 I said so. It's outside the Tariff Ring." 
 
 "Certainly I won't say. In fact, I don't know what 
 that means." 
 
 "I thought an insurance company never smashed," 
 was Helen's contribution. "Don't the others always ran 
 in and save them?" 
 
 "You're thinking oi reinsurance," said Mr. Wilcox 
 mfldly. "It is exactly there that the Porphyrion is weak. 
 It has tried to undercut, has been badly hit by a long 
 
Howards End 135 
 
 series of small fires, and it hasn't been able to reinsure. 
 I'm afraid that public companies don't save one an- 
 other for love." 
 
 " 'Human nature,' I suppose," quoted Helen, and he 
 laughed and agreed that it was. When Margaret said 
 that she supposed that clerks, like everyone else, found 
 it extremely difficult to get situations in these days, he 
 replied: "Yes, extremely," and rose to rejoin his friends. 
 He knew by his own office— seldom a vacant post, and 
 hundreds of applicants for it; at present no vacant post. 
 
 "And how's Howards End looking?" said Margaret, 
 wishing to change the subject before they parted. Mr. 
 Wilcox was a litfie apt to think one wanted to get some- 
 thing out of him. 
 
 "It's let." 
 
 "Really. And you wandering homeless in long-haired 
 Chelsea? How strange are the ways of fate!" 
 
 "No; it's let unfurnished. We've moved." 
 
 "Why, I thought of you both as anchored there for 
 ever. Evie never told me." 
 
 "I dare say when you met Evie the thing wasn't set- 
 tled. We only moved a week ago. Paul has rather a feel- 
 ing for the old place, and we held on for him to have 
 his holiday there; but, really, it is impossibly small. End- 
 less drawbacks. I forget whether you've been up to it?" 
 
 "As far as the house, never." 
 
 "Well, Howards End is one of those converted farms. 
 They don't really do, spend what you will on them. We 
 messed away with a garage all among the wych-elm 
 roots, and last year we enclosed a bit of the meadow 
 and attempted a rockery. Evie got rather keen on Al- 
 pine plants. But it didn't do— no, it didn't do. You 
 remember, or your sister will remember, the farm with 
 those abominable guinea-fowls, and the hedge that the 
 old woman never would cut properly, so that it all went 
 thin at the bottom. And, inside the house, the beams— 
 and the stair-case through a door— picturesque enough, 
 but not a place to live in." He glanced over the parapet 
 cheerfully. "Full tide. And the position wasn't right 
 
136 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 either. The neighbourhood's getting suburban. Eithei 
 ,be in London or out of it, I say; so we've taken a 
 house in Ducie Street, close to Sloane Street, and a 
 place right down in Shropshire— Oniton Grange. Ever 
 heard of Oniton? Do come and see us— right away from 
 everywhere, up towards Wales." 
 
 "What a change!" said Margaret. But the change was 
 in her own voice, which had become most sad. "I can't 
 imagine Howards End or Hilton without you." 
 
 "Hilton isn't without us," he replied. "Charles is 
 there still." - 
 
 "Still?" said Margaret, who had not kept up with the 
 Charleses. "But I tltought he was still at Epsom. They 
 were furnishing that Christmas — one Christmas. How 
 everything alters! I used to admire Mrs. Charles from 
 our windows very often. Wasn't it Epsom?" 
 
 , "Yes, but they moved eighteen months ago. Charles, 
 the good chap"— his voice dropped— "thought I 
 should be lonely. I didn't want him to move, but he 
 would, and took a house at the other end of Hilton, 
 down by the Six Hills. He had a motor, too. There they 
 all are, a very jolly party— he and she and the two 
 grandchildren." 
 
 "I manage other people's affairs so much better than 
 they manage them themselves," said Margaret as they 
 shook hands. "When you moved out of Howards End, 
 I should have moved Mr. Charles Wilcox into it. I 
 should have kept so remarkable a place in the family." 
 
 "So it is," he replied. "I haven't sold it, and don't 
 mean to." 
 
 "No; but none of you are there." 
 
 "Oh, we've got a splendid tenant— Hamar Bryce, an 
 invalid. If Charles ever wanted it— but he won't. Dolly 
 is so dependent on modern conveniences. No, we have 
 all decided against Howards End. We like it in a way, 
 but now we feel that it is neither one thing nor the 
 other. One must have one thing or the other." 
 
 "And some people are lucky enough to have both. 
 
Howards End \yj 
 
 You're doing yourself proud, Mr. Wilcox. My congratu- 
 lations." 
 "And mine," said Helen. 
 
 "Do remind Evie to come and see us— two, Wick- 
 ham Place. We shan't be there very long, either." 
 "You, too, on the move?" l( 
 
 "Next September," Margaret sighed. \\ 
 "Everyone moving! Good-bye." 1] 
 
 The tide had begun to ebb. Margaret leant over the 
 parapet and watched it sadly. Mr. Wilcox had forgot- 
 ten his wife, Helen her lover; she herself was probably 
 forgetting. Everyone moving. Is it worth while attempt- 
 ing the past when there is this continual flux even in 
 the hearts of men? 
 
 Helen roused her by saying: "What a prosperous 
 vulgarian Mr. Wilcox has grown! I have very little use 
 for him in these days. However, he did tell us about the 
 Porphyrion. Let us write to Mr. Bast as soon as ever we 
 get home, and tell him to clear out of it at once." 
 "Do; yes, that's worth doing. Let us." 
 "Let's ask him to tea." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday. 
 But he was right; the visit proved a conspicuous failure. 
 
 "Sugar?" said Margaret. 
 
 "Cake?" said Helen. "The big cake or the little dead- 
 lies? I'm afraid you thought my letter rather odd, but 
 we'll explain— we aren't odd, really— nor affected, really. 
 We're over-expressiVe: that's all." 
 
 As a lady's lap-dog Leonard did not excel. He was not 
 an Italian, still less a Frenchman, in whose blood there 
 runs the very spirit of persiflage and of gracious repar- 
 tee. His wit was the Cockney's; it opened no doors into 
 
138 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 imagination, and Helen was drawn up short by "The 
 more a lady has to say, the better," administered wag- 
 gishly. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said. 
 
 "Ladies brighten—" 
 
 "Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. 
 Let me give you a plate." 
 
 "How do you like your work?" interposed Margaret. 
 
 He, too, was drawn up short. He would not have 
 these women prying into his work. They were Romance, 
 and so was the room to which he had at last penetrated, 
 with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its 
 walls, and so were the very tea-cups, with their delicate 
 borders of wild strawberries. But he would not let 
 Romance interfere with his life. There is the devil to 
 pay then. 
 
 "Oh, well enough," he answered. 
 
 "Your company is the Porphyrion, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, that's so"— becoming rather offended. "It's 
 funny how things get round." 
 
 "Why funny?" asked Helen, who did not follow the 
 workings of his mind. "It was written as large as Ufe 
 on your card, and considering we wrote to you there, 
 and that you replied on the stamped paper—" 
 
 "Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big In- 
 surance Companies?" pursued Margaret. 
 
 "It depends what you call big." 
 
 "I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern that 
 offers a reasonably good career to its employes." 
 
 "I couldn't say— some would tell you one thing and 
 others another," said the employ^ uneasily. "For my 
 own part"— he shook his head— "I only believe half I 
 hear. Not that even; it's safer. Those clever ones come 
 to the worse grief, I've often noticed. Ah, you can't be 
 too careful." 
 
 He drank, and wiped his moustache, which was going 
 to be one of those moustaches that always droop into 
 tea-cups— more bother than they're worth, surely, and 
 not fashionable either. 
 
Howards End 139 
 
 "I quite agree, and that's why 1 was curious to 
 know: is it a solid, well-established concern?" 
 
 Leonard had no idea. He understood his own comer 
 of the machine, but nothing beyond it. He desired to 
 confess neither knowledge nor ignorance, and under 
 these circumstances, another motion of the head 
 seemed safest. To him, as to the British public, the 
 Porphyrion was the Porphyrion of the advertiseinent— 
 a giant, in the classical style, but draped sufficiently, 
 who held in one hand a burning torch, and pointed 
 with the other to St. Paul's and Windsor Castle. A 
 large sum of money was inscribed below, and you drew 
 your own conclusions. This giant caused Leonard to do 
 arithmetic and write letters, to explain the regulations 
 to new clients, and re-explain them to old ones. A giant 
 was of an impulsive morality— one knew that much; 
 He would pay for Mrs. Munt's hearth-rug with ostenta- 
 tious haste, a large claim he would repudiate quietly 
 and fight court by court. But his true fighting weight, 
 his antecedents, his amours with other members of the 
 commercial Pantheon— all these were as uncertain to 
 ordinary mortals as were tiie escapades of Zeus. While 
 the gods are powerful, we leam little about them. It is 
 only in the days of their decadence that a strong light 
 beats into heaven. 
 
 "We were told the Porphyrion's no go," blurted 
 Helen. "We wanted to tell you; that's why we wrote." 
 
 "A friend of ours did think that it is unsufficiently 
 reinsured," said Margaret. 
 
 Now Leonard had his clue. He must praise the 
 Porphyrion. "You can tell your friend," he said, "that 
 he's quite wrong." 
 
 "Oh, good!" 
 
 The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be 
 wrong was fatal. The Miss Schlegels did not mind being 
 wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been 
 misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil. 
 
 "Wrong, so to speak," he added. 
 
 "How 'so to speak'?" 
 
140 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "I mean 1 wouldn't say he's right altogether." 
 
 But this was a blunder. "Then he is right partly," said 
 the elder woman, quick as lightning. 
 
 Leonard replied that everyone was right partly, if it 
 cairte to that. 
 
 "Mr. Bast, I don't understand business, and I dare 
 say my questions are stupid, but can you tell me what 
 makes a concern 'right' or 'wrong'?" 
 
 Leonard sat back with a sigh. 
 
 "Our friend, who is also a business man, was so posi- 
 tive. He said before Christmas—" 
 
 "And advised you to clear out of it," concluded 
 Helen. "But I don't see why he should know better than 
 you do." 
 
 Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say 
 that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a com- 
 mercial training was too strong for him. Nor could he 
 say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away; 
 nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving it 
 away equally. He attempted to suggest that it was 
 something between the two, with vast possibilities in 
 either direction, but broke down under th5 gaze of four 
 sincere eyes. As yet he scarcely distinguished between 
 the two sisters. One was more beautiful and more 
 lively, but "the Miss Schlegels" still remained a com- 
 posite Indian god whose waving arms and contradictory 
 speeches were the product of a single mind. 
 
 "One can but see," he remarked, adding, "as Ibsen 
 says, 'things happen.' " He was itching to talk about 
 books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute 
 after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with im- 
 perfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or 
 praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew annoyed 
 —perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not 
 being one of those who minded their aflEairs being 
 talked over by others, but they did not take the hint. 
 Men might have shown more tact. Women, however 
 tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot 
 see why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects 
 
Howards End 141 
 
 -—in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how much 
 do you expect to have next June?" And these were 
 women with a theory, who held that reticence about 
 money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if 
 each would state the exact size of the golden island 
 upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over 
 which he throws the woof that is not money. How can 
 we do justice to the pattern otherwise? 
 
 And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky 
 and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no 
 longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books fever- 
 ishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Mar- 
 garet said: "So you like Carlyle," and then the door 
 opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, pre- 
 ceded by two prancing puppies. 
 
 "Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!" 
 screamed Helen, falling on her hands and knees. 
 
 "We brought the little fellows round," said Mr. Wil- 
 cox. 
 
 "I bred 'em myself." 
 
 "Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies." 
 
 "I've got to be going now," said Leonard sourly. 
 
 "But play with puppies a little first." 
 
 "This is Ahab, that's Jezebel," said Evie, who was one 
 of those who name animals after the less successful 
 characters of Old Testament history. 
 
 "I've got to be going." 
 
 Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice 
 -him. 
 
 "Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba— Must you be really? Good- 
 bye!" 
 
 "Come again," said Helen from the floor. 
 
 Then Leonard's gorge arose. Why should he come 
 again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No, 
 I shan't; I knew it would be a failure." 
 
 Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake. 
 We tried knowing another class— impossible." But 
 the Schlegels had never playec! with lite. They had at- 
 tempted friendship, and they would take the conse- 
 
142 E. M FORSTER 
 
 quences. Helen Tetorted: "I call that a very rade re- 
 mark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?" 
 and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar 
 row. 
 
 "You ask me why I turn on you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What do you want to have me here for?" 
 
 "To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And don't 
 shoub." 
 
 "I don't want your patronage. I don't want your tea. 
 I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me 
 for?" He turned to Mr. Wilcox. "I put it to this gentle- 
 man. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?" 
 
 Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of hu- 
 morous strength that he could so well command. "Are 
 we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use or 
 shall we go?" 
 
 But Margaret ignored him. 
 
 "I'm connected with a leading insurance company, 
 sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these 
 —ladies" (he drawled the word) . "I come, and it's to 
 have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?" 
 
 "Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp 
 from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming 
 dangerous. 
 
 "There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman 
 says. There! Not content with"— pointing at Margaret 
 —"you can't deny it." His voice rose: he was falling 
 into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as 
 I'm useful, it's a very different thing. 'Oh yes, send 
 for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains.' Oh yes. 
 Now, take me on the whole, I'm a quiet fellow: I'm law- 
 abiding. I don't wish any unpleasantness; but I— I—" 
 
 "You," said Margaret— "you— you— " 
 
 Laughter from Evie, as at a repartee. 
 
 "You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole 
 Star." 
 
 More laughter. 
 
Howards End 143 
 
 "You saw the sunrise." 
 
 Laughter. 
 
 'Tou tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling 
 us all— away past books and houses to the truth. You 
 were looking for a real home." 
 
 "I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with 
 stupid anger. 
 
 "So do L" There was a pause. "You were that last 
 Sunday— you are this today. Mr. Bast! I and my sister 
 have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also 
 supposed you might help us. We did not have you here 
 out of charity— which bores us— but because we hoped 
 there would be a connection between last Sunday and 
 other days. What is the good of your stars and trees, 
 your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our 
 daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but 
 into yours, we thought— Haven't we all to struggle 
 against life's daily greyness, against pettiness, against 
 mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle 
 by remembering my friends; others I have known by 
 remembering some place — som6 beloved place or tree 
 —we thought you one of these." 
 
 "Of course, if there's been any misunderstanding," 
 mumbled Leonard, "all I can do is to go. But I beg to 
 state—" He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his 
 boots and made him look ridiculous. "You were picking 
 my brain for official information— I can prove it— I—" 
 He blew his nose and left them. 
 
 "Can I help you now?" said Mr. Wilcox, turning to 
 Margaret. "May I have one quiet word with him in 
 the hall?" 
 
 "Helen, go after him— do anything— anyf/itftg— to make 
 the noodle understand." 
 
 Helen hesitated. 
 
 "But really—" said their visitor. "Ought she to?" 
 
 At once she went. 
 
 He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt 
 that you could polish him off for yourselves— I didn't 
 
lAA E. M. FORSTER 
 
 interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel— absolutely 
 splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are 
 very few women who could have managed him." 
 
 "Oh yes," said Margaret distractedly. 
 
 "Bowling him over with those long sentences was 
 what fetched me," cried Evie. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," chuckled her father; "all that part 
 about 'mechanical cheerfulness'— oh, fine!" 
 
 "I'm very sorry," said Margaret, collecting herself. 
 "He's a nice creature really. I cannot think what set 
 him off. It has been most unpleasant for you." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't mind." Then he changed his mood. He 
 asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permis- 
 sion given, said: "Oughtn't you really to be more care- 
 ful?" 
 
 Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed 
 after Helen. "Do you realize that it's all your fault?" 
 she said. "You're responsible." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "This is the young man whom we were to wam 
 against the Porphyrion. We warn him,"and — look!" 
 
 Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a 
 fair deduction," he said. 
 
 "Obviously unfair," said Margaret. "I was only think- 
 ing how tangled things are. It's our fault mostly— 
 neither yours nor his." 
 
 "Not his?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. 
 
 "You behave much too well to people, and then they 
 impose on you. I know the world and that type of 
 man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had 
 not been treating him properly. You must keep that 
 type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. 
 Sad, but true. They aren't our sort, and one must face 
 the fact." 
 
 "Ye-es." 
 
Howards End 145 
 
 "Do admit that we should never have had the out- 
 burst if he was a gentleman." 
 
 "I admit it willingly," said Margaret, who was pacing 
 up and down the room. "A gentleman would have kept 
 his suspicions to himself." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. 
 
 "What did he suspect you of?" 
 
 "Of wanting to make money out of him." 
 
 "Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?" 
 
 "Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding sus- 
 picion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would have 
 brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make 
 men intolerable brutes." 
 
 "I come back to my original point. You ought to be 
 more caieful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to 
 have orders not to let such people in." 
 
 She turned to him frankly. "Let me explain ex- 
 actly why we like this man, and want to see him again." 
 
 "That's your clever way of thinking. I shall never be- 
 lieve you like him." 
 
 "I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure, 
 just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and shooting; he 
 would like to go camping out. Secondly, he cares for 
 something special in adventure. It is quickest to call 
 that special something poetry—" 
 
 "Oh, he's one of that writer sort." 
 
 "No— oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be 
 loathsome stiflE. His brain is filled with the husks of 
 books, culture— horrible; we want him to wash out his 
 brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him 
 how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either 
 friends or the country, some"— she hesitated— "either 
 some very dear person or some very dear place seems 
 necessary to relieve life's daily grey, and to show that 
 it is grey. If possible, one should have both." 
 
 Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them 
 ran past. Others he caught and criticized vnth admir- 
 able lucidity. 
 
146 ■ E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mis- 
 take. This young bounder has a life of his own. What 
 right have you to, conclude it is an unsuccessful life, or, 
 as you call it, 'gr^y'^" 
 
 "Because—" 
 
 "One minute. You know nothing about him. He 
 probably has his own joys and interests— wife, chil- 
 dren, snug little home. That's where we practical 
 fellows"— he smiled— "are more tolerant than you in- 
 tellectuals. We live and let live, and assume that things 
 are jogging on fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordi- 
 nary plain man may be trusted to look after his own 
 a£Eairs. I quite grant— I look at the faces of the clerks 
 in my own office, and observe them to be dull, but I 
 don't know what's going on beneath. So, by the way, 
 with London. I have heard you rail against London, 
 Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing to say, but I 
 was very angry with you. What do you know about Lon- 
 don? You only see civilization from the outside. I don't 
 say in your case, but in too many cases that attitude 
 leads to morbidity, discontent, and Socialism." 
 
 She admitted the strength of his position, though it 
 undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts 
 of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she 
 retreated to what she called her "second line"— to the 
 special facts of the case. 
 
 "His wife is an old bore," she said simply. "He never 
 came home last Saturday night because he wanted to 
 be alone, and she thought he was with us." 
 
 "With you?" 
 
 "Yes." Evie tittered. "He hasn't got the cosy home 
 that you assumed. He needs outside interests." 
 
 "Naughty young mani" cried the girl. 
 
 "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness 
 more than sin. "When you're married, Miss Wilcox, 
 won't you want outside interests?" 
 
 "He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox 
 slyly. 
 
 "Yes, indeed. Father." 
 
Howards End ijfj 
 
 "He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that," said 
 Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. 
 
 "Oh, I dare say!" 
 
 "Miss Wilcox, he was!" 
 
 "M-m-m-m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the epi- 
 sode amusing, if risqu6. With most ladies he would not 
 have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret's repu- 
 tation as an emancipated woman. 
 
 "Hp said so, and about such a thing he wouldn't lie." 
 
 Thfey both began to laugh. 
 
 "That's where I differ from you. Men lie about their 
 positions and prospects, but not about a thing of that 
 sort." 
 
 He shook his head. "Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but 
 I know the type." 
 
 "I said before— he isn't a type. He cares about ad- 
 ventures rightly. He's certain that our smug existence 
 isn't all. He's vulgar and hysterical and bookish, but I 
 don't think that sums him up. There's manhood in 
 him as well. Yes, that's what I'm trying to say. He's a 
 real man." 
 
 As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr. Wil- 
 cox's defences fell. She saw back to the real man in him. 
 Unwittingly she had touched his emotions. A woman 
 and two men— they had formed the magic triangle of 
 sex, and the male was thrilled to jealousy, in case the 
 female was attracted by another male. Love, say the 
 ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with the beasts. 
 Be it so: one can bear that; jealousy is the real shame. 
 It is jealousy, not love, that connects us with the farm- 
 yard intoleralsly, and calls up visions of two angry cocks 
 and a complacent hen. Margaret crushed complacency 
 down because she was civilized. Mr. Wilcox, uncivilized, 
 continued to feel anger long after he had rebuilt his 
 defences and was again presenting a bastion to the 
 world. 
 
 "Miss Schlegel, you're a pair of dear creatures, but 
 you really must be careful in this uncharitable world. 
 What does your brother say?" 
 
1^8 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "I forget." 
 
 "Surely he has some opinion?" 
 
 "He laughs, if I remember correctly." 
 
 "He's very clever, isn't he?" said Evie, who had met 
 and detested Tibby at Oxford. 
 
 "Yes, pretty well— but I wonder what Helen's doing." 
 
 "She is very young to undertake this sort of thing," 
 said Mr. Wilcox. 
 
 Margaret went out into the landing. She heard no 
 sound, and Mr. Bast's topper was missing from the hall. 
 
 "Helen!" she called. 
 
 "Yes!" replied a voice from the library. 
 
 "You in there?" 
 
 "Yes— he's gone some time." 
 
 Margaret went to her. "Why, you're all alone," she 
 said. 
 
 "Yes— it's all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature—" 
 
 "Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later— Mr. 
 W. much concerned, and slightly titillated." 
 
 "Oh, I've no patience with him. I hate him. Poor dear 
 Mr. Bast! he wanted to talk literature, and we would 
 talk business. Such a muddle of a man, and yet so worth 
 pulling through. I like him extraordinarily." 
 
 "Well done," said Margaret, kissing her, "but come 
 into the drawing-room now, and don't talk about him 
 to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole thing." 
 
 Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that 
 reassured their visitor— this hen, at all events, was fancy- 
 free. 
 
 "He's gone with my blessing," she cried, "and now 
 for puppies." 
 
 As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter: 
 
 "I am really concerned at the way those girls go on. 
 They are as clever as you make 'em, but unpractical- 
 God bless me! One of these days they'll go too far. Girls 
 like that oughtn't to live alone in London. Until they 
 marry, they ought to have someone to look after them. 
 We must look in more often— we're better than no 
 one. You like them, don't you, Evie?" 
 
Howards End i^g 
 
 Evie replied: "Helen's right enough, but I can't stand 
 the toothy one. And I shouldn't have called either of 
 them girls." 
 
 Evie had grown up handsome. Dark-eyed, with the 
 glow of youth under sunburn, built firmly and firm- 
 Jipped, she was the best the Wilcoxes could do in the 
 way of feminine beauty. For the present, puppies and 
 her father were the only things she loved,, but the net 
 of matrimony was being prepared for her, and a few 
 days later she was attracted to a Mr. Percy Cahill, an 
 uncle of Mrs. Charles, and he was attracted to her. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 The Age of Property holds bitter moments even for a 
 proprietor. When a move is imminent, furniture be- 
 comes ridiculous, and Margaret now lay awake at nights 
 wondering where, where on earth they and all fteir 
 belongings would be deposited in September next. 
 Chairs, tables, pictures, books, that had rumbled down 
 to them through the generations, must rumble forward 
 again like a slide of rubbish to which she longed to give 
 the final push and send toppling into the sea. But there 
 were all their father's books— they never read them, but 
 they were their father's, and must 'be kept._ There was 
 the marble-topped chiffonier— their, mother had set 
 store by it,. they could not remember why. Round every 
 knob and cushion in the house sentiment gathered, 
 a sentiment that was at times personal, but more often 
 a faint piety to the dead, a prolongation of rites that 
 might have ended at the grave. 
 
 It was absurd, if you came to think of it; Helen and 
 Tibby came to think of it: Margaret was too busy with 
 the house-agents. The feudal ownership of land did 
 bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of mov- 
 ables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are 
 
IJO E. M. FORSTER 
 
 yeverting to the civilization of luggage, and historians of 
 the future will note how the middle classes accreted 
 possessions without taking root in the earth, and may 
 find in this the secret of 5ieir imaginative poverty. The 
 Schlegels were certainly the poorer for the loss of Wict 
 ham Place. It had helped to balance their lives, and 
 almost to counsel them. Nor is their ground-landlord 
 spiihtually the richer. He has built flats on its site, his 
 motor-cars grdw swifter, his exposures of Socialism more 
 trenchant. But he has split the precious distillation of 
 the years, and no chemistry of his can give it back to 
 society again. 
 
 Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle 
 on a house before they left town to pay their annual 
 visit to Mrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit, and wanted 
 to have her mind at ease for it. Swanage, though dull, 
 was stable, and this year she longed more than usual 
 for its fresh air and for the magnificent downs that 
 guard it on the north. But London thwarted her; in 
 its atmosphere she could not concentrate. London only 
 Stimulates, it cannot sustain; and Margaret, hurrying 
 over its surface for a house without knowing what sort 
 of a h'ouse she wanted, was paying for many a thrilling 
 sensation in the past. She could not even break loose 
 from culture, and her time was wasted by conierts which 
 it would be a sin to miss, and invitations which it would 
 never do to refuse. At last she grew desperate; she re- 
 solved that she would go nowhere and be at home to 
 no one until she found a house, and broke the resolu- 
 tion in half an hour. 
 
 Once she had humorously lamented that she had 
 never been to Simpson's restaurant in the Strand. Now 
 a note arrived from Miss Wilcox, asking her to lunch 
 there. Mr. Cahill was coming, and the three would have 
 such a jolly chat, and perhaps end up at the Hippo- 
 drome. Margaret had no strong regard for Evie, and no 
 desire to meet her fianc6, and she was surprised that 
 Helen, who had been far funnier about Simpson's, had 
 
Howards End 151 
 
 not been asked instead. But the invitation touched her 
 by its intimate tone. She must know Evie Wilcox bet- 
 ter than she supposed, and declaring that she "simply 
 must," she accepted. 
 
 But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the res- 
 taurant, staring fiercely at nothing aftei the fashion ot 
 athletic women, her heart failed her anew. Miss Wilcox 
 had changed perceptibly since her engagement. Her 
 voice was gruffer, her manner more downright, and she 
 was inclined to patronize the more foolish virgin. Mar- 
 garet was silly enough to be pained at this. Depressed 
 at her isolation, she saw not only houses and furniture, 
 but the vessel of life itself slipping past her, with people 
 like Evie and Mr. Cahill on board. 
 
 There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, 
 and one of them came to her at Simpson's in the Strand. 
 As she trod the staircase, narrow but carpeted thickly, 
 as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mut- 
 ton were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she 
 had a strong, if erroneous, conviction of her own futil- 
 ity, and wished she had never come out of her backwa- 
 ter, where nothing happened except art and literature, 
 and where no one ever got manied or succeeded in re- 
 maining engaged. Then came a little surprise. "Father 
 might be of the party"— yes, Father was. With a smile 
 of pleasure she moved forward to greet him, and her 
 feeling of loneliness vanished. 
 
 "I thought I'd get round if I could," said he. "Evie 
 told me of her little plan, so I just slipped in and se- 
 cured a table. Always secure a table first. Evie, don't 
 pretend you want to sit by your old father, because you 
 don't. Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My 
 goodness, but you look tired! Been worrying round after 
 your young clerks?" 
 
 "No, after houses," said Margaret, edging past him 
 into the box. "I'm hungry, not tired; I want to eat 
 heaps." 
 
 "That's good. What'U you have?" 
 
152 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu. 
 
 "Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson's. It's 
 not a bit the thing to go for here." 
 
 "Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pull- 
 ing off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his refer- 
 ence to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously. 
 
 "Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflec- 
 tion; "and cider to drink. That's the type of thing. I 
 like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thor- 
 oughly Old English. Don't you agree?" 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret, who didn't. The order was 
 given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. 
 Wilcox's direction, cut the meat where it was succu- 
 lent, and piled' their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on 
 sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later 
 on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the 
 "No, I didn't; yes, you did" type— conversation which, 
 though fascinating to those who are engaged in <t, 
 neither desires nor deserves ihe attention of others. 
 
 "It's a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere's 
 my motto." 
 
 "Perhaps it does make life more human." 
 
 "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in 
 the East, if you tip, they remember you from year's end 
 to year's end." 
 
 "Have you been in the East?" 
 
 "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used^ to go oiit for 
 sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of 
 a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help 
 to keep one's memory green. But you, of course, think 
 this shockingly cynical. How's your discussion society 
 getting on? Any new Utopias lately?" 
 
 "No, I'm house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I've already 
 told you> once. Do you know of any houses?" 
 
 "Afraid I don't." 
 
 "Well, what's the point of being practical if you can't 
 find two distressed females a house? We merely want 
 a small house with large rooois, and plenty of them." 
 
Howards End 152 
 
 "Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn 
 house-agent for her!" 
 
 "What's that, Father?" 
 
 "I want a new home in September, and someone 
 must find it. I can't." 
 
 "Percy, do you know of anything?" 
 
 "I can't say I do," said Mr. Cahill. 
 
 "How like you! You're never any good." 
 
 "Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. 
 Oh, come!" 
 
 "Well, you aren't. Miss Schlegel, is he?" 
 
 The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops 
 at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She 
 sympathized with it now, for a little comfort had re- 
 stored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her 
 equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary 
 inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant 
 and admired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity 
 of our past. Though no more Old English than the 
 'works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so 
 adroitly that her criticism was lulled, and the guests 
 whom it was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the 
 outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps 
 of their talk jaired oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I'll 
 cable out to Uganda this evening," came from the 
 table behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him 
 have it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled 
 at such incongruities. "Next time," she said to Mr. Wil- 
 cox, "you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace 
 Miles's." 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 "No, you'd hate it," she said, pushing her glass to- 
 wards him for some more cider. "It's all proteids and 
 body-buildings, and people come up to you and beg 
 your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy manl 
 I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?" 
 
154 ^- ^' FOKSTER 
 
 He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. 
 
 "Just so. Luckily it was Helen's aura, not mine, and 
 she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just 
 sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man 
 went." 
 
 "Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. 
 No one's ever asked me about my— what d'ye call it? 
 Perhaps I've not got one." 
 
 "You're bound to have one, but it may be such a 
 terrible colour that no one dares mention it." 
 
 "Tell me, though. Miss Schlegel, do you really be- 
 lieve in the supernatural and all that?" 
 
 "\Too difficult a question." 
 
 "Why's that? Gruyfere or Stilton?" 
 
 "Gruyfere, please." 
 
 "Better have Stilton." 
 
 "Stilton. Because, though I don't believe in auras, 
 and think Theosophy's only a halfway-house — " 
 
 "—Yet there may be something in it all the same," 
 he concluded, with a frown. 
 
 "Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong di- 
 rection. I can't explain. I don't believe in all these fads, 
 and yet I don't like saying that I don't believe in 
 them." 
 
 He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn't 
 give me your word that you don't hold with astral bodies 
 and all the rest of it?" 
 
 "I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point 
 was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When 
 I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to 
 be funny. But why do you want this settled?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know." 
 
 ■"Yes, I am," "No, you're not," burst from the lovers 
 opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then 
 changed the subject. 
 
 "How's your house?" 
 
 "Much tiie same as when you honoured it last week." 
 
Howards End 155 
 
 "I don't mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course." 
 
 "Why 'of course'?" 
 
 "Can't you turn out your tenant and let it to us? 
 We're nearly demented." 
 
 "Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I 
 thought you wanted to be in town. One bit of advice: 
 fix your district, then fix your price, and then don't 
 budge. That's how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. 
 I said to myself: 'I mean to be exactly here,' and I was, 
 and Oniton's a place in a thousand." ^ 
 
 "But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerize 
 houses-^cow them with an eye, and up they come, / 
 trembling. Ladies can't. It's the houses that are mes- \ 
 merizing me. I've no control over the saucy things. 
 Houses are alive. No?" —' 
 
 "I'm out of my depth," he said, and added: "Didn't 
 you talk rather like that to your office boy?" 
 
 "Did I?— I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same 
 way to everyone— or try to." 
 
 "Yes, I know. And how much do you suppose that he 
 understood of it?" 
 
 "That's his lookout. I don't believe in suiting my 
 conversation to my company. One can doubtless hit 
 upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well 
 enough, but it's no more like the real thing than money 
 is like food. There's no nourishment in it. You pass it 
 to the lower classes, and they pass it back to you, and 
 tliis you call 'social intercourse' or 'mutual endeavour,' 
 when it's mutual priggishness if it's anything. Our 
 friends at Chelsea don't see this. They say one ought to 
 be at all costs inteUigible, and sacrifice—" 
 
 "Lower classes," interrupted Mr. Wilcox, as it were 
 thrusting his hand into her speech. "Well, you do admit 
 that there are rich and poor. That's something." 
 
 Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid, 
 or did he understand her better than she understood 
 herself? 
 
 "You do admit that, if wealth was divided up equally, 
 
156 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 in a few years there would be rich and poor again just 
 the same. The hard-working man would come to the 
 top, the wastrel sink to the bottom." 
 
 "Everyone admits that." 
 
 "Your Socialists don't." 
 
 "My Socialists do. Yours mayn't; but I strongly sus- 
 pect yours of being not Socialists, but ninepins which 
 you have constructed for your own amusement. I can't 
 imagine any living creature who would bowl over quite 
 so easily." 
 
 He would have resented this had she not been a 
 woman. But women may say anything— it was one of 
 his holiest beliefs — and he only retorted, with a gay 
 smile: "I don't care. You've made two damaging ad- 
 missions, and I'm heartily with you in both." 
 
 In time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had 
 excused herself from the Hippodrome, took her leave. 
 Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she suspected that 
 the entertainment had been planned by the father. He 
 and she were advancing out of their respective families 
 towards a more intimate acquaintance. It had begun 
 long ago. She had been his wife's friend, and, as such, 
 he had given her that silver vinaigrette as a memento. It 
 was pretty of him to have given that vinaigrette, and 
 he had always preferred her to Helen— unlike most 
 men. But the advance had been astonishing lately. They 
 had done more in a week than in two years, and were 
 really beginning to know each other. 
 
 She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace 
 Miles, and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby 
 as his chaperon. He came, and partook of body-build- 
 ing dishes with humility. 
 
 Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They 
 had not succeeded in finding a new home. 
 
Howards End ijy 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 As they were seated at Aunt Juley's breakfast-table at 
 The Bays, parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoy- 
 ing the view of the bay, a letter came for 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 Ducie Street, and was willing to let it on a yearly 
 tenancy. It was a businesslike 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 manoeuvred to get 
 her to Simpson's, might this be a mancEuvre 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 
 tool!" 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 burr of conversation 
 her fears vanished. 
 
 'Tou 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 we shall be bundled out bag and baggage 
 
Ijg E. M. FORSTER 
 
 into the street. We don't know what we want, that's the 
 mischief with us—" 
 
 "No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping her- 
 self to toast. 
 
 "Shan't I go up to town today, take the house if it's 
 the least possible, and then come down by the after- 
 noon train tomorrow and start enjoying myself. I shall 
 be no fun to myself or to others until this business is 
 off my mind." 
 
 "But you won't do anything 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 to 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 ac- 
 quaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has 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 breacle at you." 
 
 "It's a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Mar- 
 garet, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? 
 You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall 
 I say no? Tibby Iqve— which? I'm specially anxious to 
 pin you both." 
 
 "It all depends what meaning you attach to the word 
 'possi-' " 
 
 "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 
 
Howards End icg 
 
 a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prus- 
 sian? How could he break loose with patriotism and 
 begin aiming at, something else? It would have killed 
 me. When Jie 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 coun- 
 tries," said Mrs. Munt 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 Wick- 
 ham 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." 
 
 "Hden may be right." 
 
 "Of course she's right," said Helen. 
 
 Helen might be right, but she did not go up to Lon- . 
 don. 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 could not believe 
 that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had 
 been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in 
 
l6o E. M. FORSTER 
 
 the train, and it bored her to look at the landscape, 
 which she had seen but yesterday. At Southairipton 
 she "waved" to Frieda: Frieda was on her way down 
 to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated 
 that their trains would cross.-_But Frieda was looking 
 the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feel- 
 ing solitary and old-maidish. 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 
 thingl 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 
 posts really is fond of me, and has as a matter of fact—" 
 It had always seemed to her the most hideous comer 
 of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by 
 the mere pressure of virginity. 
 
 Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo hiihself . She felt cer- 
 tain 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 Schlegel 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 Juley 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 Mil- 
 ton. I know all sorts of tilings." 
 
 "Eviel" he echoed in injured tones. "You won't see 
 
Howards End 161 
 
 her. She's gone out with Cahill. 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 re- 
 plied. "It's heart-breaking to leave one's old home. I 
 scarcely remember anything before Wickham Place, and 
 Helen and Tibby were bom there. Helen says— " 
 
 "You, too, feel lonely?" 
 
 "Horribly. Hullo, 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 will be a desert of chairs and sofas 
 —just imagine it! — rolling through infinity with no one 
 te sit upon them." 
 
 "Your sister always liked her little joke." 
 
 "She says 'Yes,' my brother says 'No,' to Ducie 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 irresponsive chauffeur, would flash into 
 the field of house-hunting, and all demand some com- 
 ment or response. It is impossible to see modern life~l 
 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 pas- 
 sion and philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin. TTiey 
 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 sup- 
 posed herself to have already lost— not youth's creative 
 
l62 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 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 moustache and the eyes tiiat Helen had compared 
 to brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in £hem, 
 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, homage is due to it 
 from those who think themselves superior, and who 
 possibly are. 
 
 "At all events, you 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, no! Only idiots and prigs do that." 
 "I am glad, very glad," he repeated, suddenly soften- 
 ing and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased 
 him. "There is so much cant talked in would-be intel- 
 lectual circles. I am glad you don't share it. Self-denial 
 is all very well as a means of strengthening the char- 
 acter. But I can't stand those people who run down 
 comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can 
 you?" 
 
 "Comf Gifts 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 
 
Howards End 163 
 
 of character for business purposes, he seemed this after- 
 noon 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 Swanage, 
 which will be tomorrow afternoon, I'll talk it over once 
 more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you 'yes' or 
 no. 
 
 "Right. The dining-room." And they began theii 
 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 achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and 
 pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Mar- 
 garet viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, 
 the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. 
 It would never do with her own furniture, but those 
 heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with pres- 
 entation platCi stood up against its pressure like men. 
 (The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive 
 the modem capitalist from the warriors and hungers 
 of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the 
 lord sat at meat 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-hall." 
 
 The entrance-hall was paved. 
 
 "Here we fellows smoke." 
 
 We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It 
 was as if a motor-cai had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said 
 Margaret, sinking into one of them. 
 
 "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her up- 
 •rurned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate 
 note. "It's all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. 
 Isn't it?" 
 
 "Ye-es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" 
 
 "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" 
 
164 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" 
 
 "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oni- 
 ton." 
 
 "Does— However, I'm concerned with the house, 
 not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" 
 
 "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a 
 half." 
 
 "Ah, 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 man- 
 aged 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 accompani- 
 ment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox's drawing-room looked 
 thus at Howards 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. 
 
 "Miss Schlegel"— his voice was firm— "I have had 
 you up on false pretences. I want 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 prob- 
 able-" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she^nterrupted, holding the piano 
 and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you 
 afterwards if I may." 
 
 He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel— 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 re- 
 
Howards End 165 
 
 sembled the all-pervading happiness of fin& weather. 
 Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could 
 think of no central radiance here. She stood in his draw- 
 ing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leav- 
 ing him she realized that the central radiance had been 
 love. 
 
 "You aren't offended, Miss Schlegel?" 
 
 "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 intui- 
 tion to look at him as he struggled for possessions that 
 money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and af- 
 fection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught 
 herself only to desire, and could have clothed the strug- 
 gle 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 tomorrow." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "Good-bye, and it's you I thank." 
 
 "I may order the motor round, mayn't I?" 
 
 "That would be most kind." 
 
 "I wish I had written instead. Ought I to have writ- 
 ten?" 
 
 "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, in tints of the quietest grey. Yet 
 she thrilled with happiness ere she reached her own 
 house. Odiers 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 noth- 
 ing 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 i..imazed her that a 
 
l66 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 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 ovet judicially with Helen. It had been 
 a strange love-scene— the central radiance unacknowl- 
 edged from first to last. She, in his place, would have 
 said "Ich liebe dich," 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 heaii once; but the effort 
 would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, 
 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 impu- 
 dent to correct him. 
 
 Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; 
 surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one 
 hint of bitterness. 
 
Howards End 167 
 
 If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps 
 the wisest course would be to take him to the final sec- 
 tion of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their sum- 
 mit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. 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 Stour is beyond, unaccount- 
 able stream, dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborne— the 
 Stour, sliding out of fat fields, to marry the Avon be- 
 neath the tower of Christchurch. The valley of the 
 Ayon — invisible, but tar to the north the trained eye 
 may see Clearbury Ring that guards it, and the imagina- 
 tion may leap beyond that on to Salisbury Plain itself, 
 and beyond the Plain to all the glorious downs of Cen- 
 tral 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 Wight is beautiful beyond all laws x)f 
 beauty. It is as if "^ 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 frag- 
 flient 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, arid roads! What incredible variety of 
 
l68 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 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 Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke, 
 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 Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem 
 to Mrs. Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which 
 led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at 
 Friedrich Wilhelms Bad, Riigen, where beech-trees hang 
 over the tideless Baltic, and cows may conteinplate the 
 brine. Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would 
 be, water being safer wJien it moved about. 
 
 "And your English lakes— Vindermere, Grasmere— 
 are they, then, unhealthy?" 
 
 "No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh 
 water, and different. Salt water ought to have tides, and 
 go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. Look, for 
 instance, at an aquarium." - 
 
 "An aquarium! Oh, Meesis Munt, you mean to tell 
 me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, 
 when Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tad- 
 poles—" 
 
 "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." 
 
 ""riien 'smell.' And the mud of your Pool down there 
 —does it not smell, or may I say 'stink, ha, ha'?" 
 
 "There always has been mud in Poole Harbour," said 
 Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it 
 down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon 
 it." 
 
 "Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another in- 
 ternational incident was closed. 
 
 '"Bournemouth is,'" resumed their hostess, quot- 
 ing a local Thyme to which she was much attached— 
 "'Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be 
 the most important town of all and biggest of the three.' 
 
Howards End 169 
 
 Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, 
 and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward 
 a little, and look down again at Swanage." 
 
 "Aunt Juley, 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 over- 
 tired." 
 
 "Oh, I do wonder— I do wonder whether she's taken 
 the house." 
 
 "I hope she hasn't been hasty." 
 
 "So do J-oh, so do I." 
 
 "Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda 
 asked. 
 
 "I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing 
 himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beauti- 
 ful in their modem 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, Frieda. How ab- 
 surdly matrimonial you are!" 
 
 "But sister to that Paul?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt 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 Liesecke, at my niece's train. You 
 see, it -is coming towards us— coming, coming; and, when 
 it gets to Corfe, it will actually go through the downs, 
 on which we are standing, so tiiat, if we walk over, as I 
 suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it 
 coming on the other side. Shall we?" 
 
 Frieda 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 coastw;ard downs. They were looking 
 
lyO E. M. FORSTER 
 
 across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to 
 be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the 
 three. Margaret's train reappeared as promised, and was 
 greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a stand- 
 still in the middle distance, and there it had been 
 planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, 
 and a tea-basket, up to join them. 
 
 "You see," continued Helen to her cousin, "the Wil- 
 coxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles. 
 They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where 
 my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shrop- 
 shire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, an- 
 other near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house when 
 she marries, and probably a pied-i-terre in the country 
 —which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa 
 makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That 
 was something like a dear little house! Didn't you think 
 so, Aunt Juley?" 
 
 "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. 
 Munt, 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 Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wil- 
 cox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry 
 Paul." 
 
 "You yet may," said Frieda 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 re- 
 mark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for 
 she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet 
 it betraved that interest in the universal which the 
 
Howards End 171 
 
 average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman 
 does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beau- 
 tiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, 
 \ the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin's be- 
 side a landscape of Leader's, strident and ill-considered, 
 but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened ideal- 
 ism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation 
 for what followed. 
 
 "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from gen- 
 eralities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand 
 where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. \ 
 I see tlie pony-cart coming." 
 
 They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret 
 and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving 
 the outskirts of Swanage, 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 highroad 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're as we were?" 
 
 "Not exactly." 
 
 She got out, looking tired. 
 
 "Some mystery," said Tibby. "We are to be enlight- 
 ened presently." 
 
 Margaret came close up to her and whispered that 
 she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. 
 
 Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the 
 downs 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 theii 
 first wife's friends." 
 
 Margaret's face flashed despair. 
 
 "That type—" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not 
 anything wrong with you?" 
 
 "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. 
 
iy2 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "But you've never conceivably— you've never—" She 
 pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I 
 can't hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt 
 Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we've got to 
 talk houses, and'll come on afterwards." And then, turn- 
 ing her face to her sister's, she burst into tears. 
 
 Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, 
 "Oh, really—" Shfe felt herself touched with a hand 
 that trembled. 
 
 "Don't," sobbed Helen, ''don't, don't, Meg, don't!" 
 She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Mar- 
 garet, 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," sobbed Helen. "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," sobbed Helen. And she 
 broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, 
 stretching her hands towards the view and crying. 
 
 "What's happened to you?" called Margaret, follow- 
 ing through the wind that gathers at sundown 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." 
 
Howards End iy3 
 
 "Oh, Helen, stop saying 'don't' f It's ignorant. It's as 
 if your head wasn't out of the sHme. 'Don't' is prob- 
 ably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast." 
 
 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, be- 
 cause I'm anxious you should know everything from 
 the first. The 'first' was about ten days ago. It was the 
 day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was 
 defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about 
 me, however slightly. I thought it \yas 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-aiid-so's a pretty girl,' I am 
 seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, 
 and long 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 ana- 
 lyze feelings while they are still only feelings, and un- 
 embodied in the- social fabric. With her arm rbund 
 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. In- 
 deed, I began the moment he spoke to me." 
 
 "And have settled to marry him?" 
 
 "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. 
 What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say," 
 
iy4 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 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 impossi- 
 ble, because personal relations are the 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-^ 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, no! There are heaps of 
 things in me that he doesn't, and shall never, under- 
 stand." 
 
 Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and 
 the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade 
 had fallen that interposes between married couples and 
 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 hus- 
 
Howards End lyj 
 
 band. 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 you so despise and enable all 
 this—" She waved her hand at the landscape, which 
 confirmed anything. "If Wilcoxes 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 in, 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 guar- 
 antee it. There are times when it seems to me—" 
 
 "And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul." 
 
 "That's brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an abso- 
 lutely different case. I've thought things out." 
 
 "It makes no difference thinking tiaings out. They 
 come to the same." 
 
 "Rubbish!" 
 
 There was a long silence, during which the tide re- 
 turned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose some- 
 thing," murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The 
 water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and 
 the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its im- 
 mense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. 
 Frome was forced inwards towards Dorchester, Stour 
 against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over 
 the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it 
 to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throb 
 bing 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 com- 
 plexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does 
 
in^ E. M FORSTER 
 
 she belong to those who have moulded her and made 
 her feared by other lands, or to those who had 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? 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 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 be- 
 yond 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 gen- 
 eration, 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 an- 
 other'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 4ings, 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, say- 
 ing, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile— 
 what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Prop- 
 erty and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family 
 Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing, 
 and refusing to be comforted; 'Theology, vaguely as- 
 cetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers 
 are aroused— cold brood— and creep out of their holes. 
 They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Pro- 
 priety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half- 
 guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the law- 
 
Howards End 177 
 
 yers creep back, and, it 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 could 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 en- 
 gagement-ring. They greeted one another with a hearty 
 cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at 
 The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal 
 hotel: he was one of those men who know the princi- 
 pal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret 
 if she wouldn't care for a turn on the Parade. She ac- 
 cepted, 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: ti\e joy, though genuine, was dif- 
 ferent; the mystery an 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 Quixotifc scheme. Ah 
 well!" 
 "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 eariier! How extraordinarily interesting, 
 Henry! Tell me." 
 
iy8 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he 
 could not have told, for his mental states became ob- 
 scure as soon as he had passed through them. He mis- 
 liked 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 Tibby?" 
 
 "With your brother?" 
 
 "Yes, during cigarettes." 
 
 "Oh, very well." 
 
 "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. 
 "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." 
 
 "About Greece too." 
 
 "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby'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 currant-farm 
 near Calamata." 
 
 "What a delightful thing to have shares inl Can't we 
 go there for our honeymoon?" 
 , "What to do?" 
 
 "To eat the currants. And isn't there marvellous 
 scenery?" 
 
 "Moderately, but it's not the kind of place one could 
 possiblv go to with a lady." 
 
Howards End ito 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "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 Evie is 
 going to marry Percy Cahill." 
 
 "Dolly's uncle." 
 
 "Exactly. The girl's 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 lettfcr. You 
 see, he has an increasing family and increasing ex- 
 penses, 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, some day Charles will 
 have Howards End; but I am anxious, in my own hap- 
 piness, 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 de- 
 termined that my children shall have no case against 
 me. 
 
 "Be generous to them," she said sharply. "Bother 
 justice!" 
 
l8o E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "I am determined— and have already written to 
 Charles to that effect—" 
 
 "But how much have you got?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "How much have you a year? I've six hundred." 
 
 "My income?" 
 
 "Yes. We must begin with how much you have, be- 
 fore we can settle how much jou can give Charles. Jus- 
 tice, 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 to spring on a fellow!" 
 
 "Don't you know your income? Or don't you want to 
 tell it me?" 
 
 itj tf 
 
 "That's all right"— now she patted 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 
 p^rts. 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 bltinderings. "Go ahead; give away all 
 you can, bearing in mind I've 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 marry- 
 ing a poor man." 
 
 "Helen wouldn't agree with me here," she continued. 
 "Helen daren't slang the rich, being rich herself, but 
 she would like to. There's an odd notion, that I haven't 
 yet got hold of, running about at the back of her biain, 
 that poverty is somehow 'real.' She dislikes all organiza- 
 tion, and probably confuses wealth with the technique 
 of wealth. Sovereigns in & stocking wouldn't bother 
 
Howards End 181 
 
 her; cheques 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 in Ducie 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 sup- 
 posed to say such things, but the earlier the nicer." 
 
 "How about September for us too?" he asked, rather 
 dryly. 
 
 ""Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in 
 September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and Tibby 
 into it? That's rather an idea. They are so unbusiness- 
 like, we could make them do anything by judicious 
 management. Look here— yes. We'll do that. And we 
 ourselves could live at Howards End or Shropshire." 
 
 He blew out his cheeks. "Heavens! how you women 
 do fly round! My head's in a whirl. Point by point, Mar- 
 garet. Howards End's impossible. I let it to Hamar 
 Bryce on a three years' agreement last March. Don't 
 you remember? Oniton. 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 within easy reach of Town. Only Ducie 
 , Street has huge drawbacks. There's a mews behind." 
 
l82 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first 
 she had heard of the mews behind Ducie Street. When 
 she was a possible tenant it had suppressed itself, not 
 eonsciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox 
 manner, though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision 
 that is imperative for truth. When Henry lived in Ducie 
 Street, he remembered the mews; w^en he tried to let, 
 he forgot it; and if anyone had remarked that the mews 
 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 busi- 
 ness mind, and Margaret may do well to be tender to 
 it, considering all that the business mind has done for 
 England. 
 
 "Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious 
 nuisance. The smoking-room, too, is an abominable 
 little den. The house oposite has been taken by op 
 eratic people. Ducie Street's going down, it's my private 
 opinion." 
 
 "How sad! It's only a few years since they built those 
 pretty houses." 
 
 "Shows things are moving. Good for trade." 
 
 "I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epit- 
 ome of us at our worst— eternal formlessness; all the 
 qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away- 
 streaming, streaming for ever. 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." 
 
Howards End 183 
 
 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. You 
 will make ine so angry. I don't the least take it as a 
 compliment." 
 
 He laughed, and lit a cigar. "It isn't meant as a com- 
 pliment, 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 wheedling." 
 
 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. Dis- 
 daining the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods, gar- 
 rulous, 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 
 'em," but no more, not realizing that she was penetrat- 
 ing 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 
 Juley's garden. As they were going up by the side-paths,, 
 through some rhododendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in 
 front, said "Margaret^' rather huskily, turned, dropped 
 his 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, 
 
184 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 and when it was over he saw her sately to the door and 
 rang the bell for her, but disappeared into the night 
 before the maid answered it. On looking back, the in- 
 cident displeased her. It was so isolated. Nothing in 
 their previous conversation had heralded it, and, wone 
 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 complaisance, 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 chirrupings 
 began to mingle with his retreating thunder. 
 
 "You've woken the baby. I knew you would. (Rum- 
 ti-foo, Rackety-tackety-Tompkin! ) I'm not responsible 
 for what Uncle Percy does, nor for anybody else or any- 
 thing, so there!" 
 
 "Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my 
 sister down to meet him? Who sent them out in the 
 motor day after day?" 
 
 "Charles, that reminds me of some poem." 
 
 "Does it indeed? We shall all be danciilg 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 moivths ago you admitted 
 it." 
 
 "I didn't." 
 
 "You did." 
 
Howards End 185 
 
 "Tootle, tootle, playing on the podtle!" exclaimed 
 Dolly, 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 
 needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill's too old." 
 
 "Of course, if you're going to be rude to Uncle 
 Percy-" 
 
 "Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards 
 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, did- 
 dums?" 
 
 "We're in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. 
 I shall answer the pater'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— Dolly, are you listening?— we'll 
 behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs, 
 or monopolizing my father, or at all ill-treating him, or 
 worrying him with their artistic beastliness, 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 Dolly are sitting in deck- 
 chairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from 
 its garage across the lawn. A short-f rocked edition of 
 Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator edi- 
 tion is squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly. 
 Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode, 
 so that they may inherit the earth. 
 
l86 E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Marpret 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. With- 
 out it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half 
 beasts, unconnected (^ch^that have never joined into 
 a man. With it love iSisSm, and alights on the highest 
 curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. 
 Happy the man who sees horn either aspect the glory 
 of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul Jie 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 bothers about my own inside." Outwardly 
 he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had 
 reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it vras 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. Catharine 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 ardour, 
 but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. 
 "Amabat, amare timebat." And it was here that Mar- 
 garet 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 
 
Howards End 187 
 
 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 con- 
 nect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isola- 
 tion that is 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 Henrj- 
 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 Frieda were hostile, 
 or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; 
 he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in 
 the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the mile- 
 stones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once— on 
 another occasion— she scolded him about it. He was 
 puizled, but replied with a laugh: "My motto is Con- 
 centrate. I've 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's Concentrate." And 
 this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. 
 
 They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the 
 daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path 
 was bright in the morning sun. She was with Heleii, 
 who had been ominously quiet since the affair was set- 
 tled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one 
 hand, retaining her sister's in 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 want to 
 
l88 E. M. FOKSTIER 
 
 talk it over with you": tor Leonard Bast was nothing 
 to him now that she had given him her word; the tri- 
 angle of sex was broken for ever. 
 
 "Thanks to your hint, he's clearing out of the Por- 
 phyrion." 
 
 "Not a bad business, that Porphyrion," he said ab- 
 sently, 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 rhododendrons. Good morning, Frau Liesecke; we 
 manage to grow flowers in England, don't we?" 
 
 "Not a bad business?" 
 
 "No. My letter's about Howards End. Bryce has 
 been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it. I am far 
 from sure that I shall give him permission. There was 
 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 sub- 
 letting?" 
 
 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 mar- 
 gin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth 
 steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, 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 Porphyrion. I don't 
 feel easy— might I just bother you, Henry?" 
 
 Her manner was so serious that he stopped and asked 
 her a little sharply what she wanted. 
 
 "You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it 
 was a bad concern, so we 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, 
 
Howards End i8g 
 
 without securing a berth 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?" 
 
 "Dempsterl My goodness me, yes." 
 
 "More right than the Porphyrion?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes; safe as 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 How- 
 ards End; in practice there will be. Things may be done 
 for which no money can compensate. For instance, I 
 shouldn't want that fine wych-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 Juley 
 expects us to stop here another week at least." 
 
 "But you can give that up now." 
 
 "Er— 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 wych-elm?" 
 
 "Pigs' teeth?" 
 
 "And you chew the bark for toothache." 
 
 "What a rum notion! Of course notl" 
 
igo E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. 
 There are still a great number of sacred trees in Eng- 
 land, it seems." 
 
 But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice 
 could be heard in the distance: to be intercepted him- 
 self by Helen. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion— " she be- 
 gan, and went scarlet all over her face. 
 
 "It's all right," called Margaret, catching them up. 
 "Dempster's Bank's better." 
 
 "But I think you told us the Porphyrion 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 at a greatly 
 reduced salary." 
 
 "He only says 'reduced,' " corrected Margaret, see- 
 ing 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. Munt, 
 was going steadily on, but the last remark made him 
 say: "What? What's that? Do you mean that I'm re- 
 sponsible?" 
 
 "You're ridiculous, Hqlen." 
 
 "You seem to think-r-" 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 in- 
 formed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to 
 you, was bound to say: T 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." 
 
Howards End igi 
 
 "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. 'Tou'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 se- 
 riously. 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 su- 
 perior 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 civilization moves forward, the shoe is bound 
 to pinch in places, and it's absurd to pretend that any- 
 one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor 
 my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the 
 directors of the Porphyrion, are to 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 
 
19"2 E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 made them happiei. No, no. You can't. There always 
 have been rich and poor. I'm no fatalist. Heaven for- 
 bid! But our civilization is molded by great imper- 
 sonal forces" (his voice grew complacent; it always did 
 when he eliminated the personal) "and there always will 
 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 civilization has on the wholfr 
 been upward." 
 
 "Owing to God, I suppose," flashed Helen. 
 
 He stared at her. 
 
 "You grab the dollars. God does the rest." 
 
 It was no good instructing the girl if she was going 
 to talk about God in that neurotic modem way. Fra- 
 ternal 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 recon- 
 ciled 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— it is always that sloppy 'somehow'— 
 will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way 
 the Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the 
 Mr. Basts of today are in pain." 
 
 "He is such a man in theory. But oh, Hekn, in 
 theory!" 
 
 "But oh, Meg, what a theory!" 
 
 "Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?" 
 
 "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 
 
Howards End loj 
 
 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 Hen^ 
 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 
 Charleses." 
 
 "But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, 
 or even the Lulworth?" said Mrs. Munt, coming nearer. 
 "Without going once more up Nine Barrows Down?" 
 
 "I'm afraid so." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with: "Good! I did 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 disap- 
 proving 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 
 overrinterested in the subconscious self. She exag- 
 I gerated 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 per- 
 
194 ^' ^' ^o^'^s'i'^^ 
 
 sonal. Helen was sflent foi 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 tiiere 
 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 or 
 whom I'm strong enough to boss. So I shan't ever 
 many, 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 
 Tibby. If Tibby 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 un- 
 seen—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 
 
m 
 
 Howards End loe 
 
 something a little unbalanced in the minS t^t so read- 
 ily shreds the visible. The business man 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 halfway between," 
 Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years. No; truth, 
 being alive, was not halfway between anything. It was 
 only to be found by continuous excursions into either 
 realm, and though proportion is the final secret, to es- 
 pouse it at the outset is to insure sterility. 
 
 Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have 
 talked till midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to 
 do, focussed the conversation on Henry. She might 
 abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she al- 
 ways be civil to him in company? "I definitely dislike 
 him, but I'll do what lean," 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 Juley, 
 and impossible for -Tibby or Charles. There are mo- 
 pients 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 a fairer fu- 
 ture. Margaret, though unable to understand her sister, 
 was assured against estrangement, and returned to Lon- 
 don with a more peaceful mind. 
 
 The following morning, at eleven o'clock, she pre- 
 sented herself at the ofiSces 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 associ- 
 ates with Africa itself 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 elec- 
 tric-light globes blossoming in triplets, of little rabbit- 
 
^ ig6 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 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 Porphyrion, or Dempster's Bank, or her own wine- 
 
 \| merchant's. Everything seems just alike in these days. 
 
 \\ But perhaps she was seeing the Imperial side of the 
 
 li company rather than its West African, and Imperialism 
 
 ilalways had been one of her difficulties. 
 
 ^1 "One minute!" called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her 
 
 name. He touched a bell, the e£Fect of which was to 
 
 produce Charles. 
 
 Charles had written his father an adequate letter- 
 more adequate than Evie's, through which a girlish in- 
 dignation throbbed. And he greeted his future step- 
 mother with propriety. 
 
 "I hope that my wife— how do you do?— will give 
 you a decent lunch," was his opening. "I left instrac- 
 tions, but we live in a rough-and-ready way. She expects 
 you back to tea, too, after you have had a look at How- 
 ards 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 decamped abroad 
 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." 
 
Howards End loy 
 
 'Toor fellow!" 
 ^^ "Poor fiadlesticks!" said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. 
 "He had the impudence to put up notice-boards with- 
 out as much as saying with your leave or by your leave. 
 Charles flung them down." 
 
 |Tes, 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 descanted pro- 
 fusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong 
 letter came out wath it. Mr. Wilcox added his signa- 
 ture. "Now we'll be oflE," said he. 
 
 A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Mar- 
 garet, awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the last, 
 and in a moment the oflSces 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. Per- 
 haps Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. 
 Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly through 
 Westmoreland that he missed it? and if Westmore- 
 land can be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose 
 delicate structure particularly needs the attentive eye. 
 Hertfordshire is England at its quietest, with little em- 
 phasis of river and hill; it is England meditative. If 
 Drayton were with us again to write a new edition of 
 his incomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of 
 Hertfordshire as indeterminate of feature, with hair 
 obfuscated by the London smoke. Their eyes would 
 be sad, and averted from their fate towards the 
 
1^8 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the 
 slowly flowing Lea. 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 motor's conje to stay," he answered. "One must 
 get about. There's a pretty church— oh, 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; oh the right the swelling 
 forms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such a 
 neighbourhood surprised her. TTiey 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, standiiig 
 at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops 
 of the rain. Tliey 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. Biyce 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 
 
Howards End igg 
 
 babies, but hit it oft better with the two-year-old, and 
 sent Dolly into fits of laughter by tallcing 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 
 Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was ob- 
 durate. 
 
 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 hei 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." 
 
 "Mayn't 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 ap- 
 pearance of the earth. 
 
 There were the greengage-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 colours were awakening, and Lent Lilies 
 stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions 
 over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could 
 
200 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 not see the wych-elin 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 pluck- 
 ing 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. Slie 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 con- 
 nection at all between them! Margaret smiled. Would 
 that her own fancies were as clear-cut! Would 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. Ought she to wait for Henry? He felt 
 strongly about property, and might prefer to show her 
 over himself. On the other hand, he had tcld 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 finger-prints were on 
 the hall-windows, flue and rubbish on its unwashed 
 boardSi The civilization of luggage had been here for 
 a month, and then decamped. Dining-room and draw- 
 ing-room—right and left— were guessed only by their 
 wall-papers. They were just rooins where one could shel- 
 ter from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a great 
 beam. The dining-room and hall revealed theirs openly, 
 but the drawing-room's was match-boarded- because 
 the facts of life must be concealed from ladies? Draw- 
 
Howards End 201 
 
 ing-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 whitewash. It 
 was the servants' part, though she scarcely realized that: 
 just rooms again, where friends might shelter. The gar- 
 den at the back was full of flowering cherries and plums. 
 Farther on were hints of the meadow and a black cliff 
 of pines. Yes, the meadow was beautiful. 
 
 Penned in 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 Lon- 
 don encourages, was laid for ever when she paced 
 from the hall at Howards 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 Wes- 
 sex from the ridge of the Purbeck Downs, and saying: 
 "You will have to lose something." She was not so sure. 
 For instance, she would double her kingdom by open- 
 ing the door that concealed the stairs. 
 JNow she thought of the map of Africa; of empires; 
 of her father; of the two supreme nations, streams ot 
 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, martially. It dominated the rain. 
 
 It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished, 
 that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to the 
 
202 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 staiis. A noise as of diums seemed to deafen her. A 
 woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure 
 erect, with face impassive, with lips that parted and 
 said dryly: 
 "Ohl Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox." 
 Margaret stammered: "I— Mrs. Wilcox— I?" 
 "In fancy, of course— in fancy. You had her^way of 
 walking. Good day." And the old woman passed out 
 into the rain. 
 
 CHAPTER XXrV 
 
 "It gave her quite a turn," said Mr. Wilcox, when re- 
 t-ailing 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 lit 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 surest," 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 Mar- 
 garet! And very naturally. Uneducated classes are 
 so stupid." 
 
 "Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?" Margaret asked. 
 
Howards End 203 
 
 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 Howards End keys in the 
 front lobby, and assumed that you'd seen them as you 
 came in, 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 illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, 
 Margaret was destined to learn a good 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 meant great-grandmother— the one who left Mrs. 
 Wilcox the house. Weren't both of them and Miss 
 Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a farm?" 
 
 Her fatlier-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His at- 
 titude 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 How- 
 ard—he was the last of them." 
 
 "I believe so," said Mr. Wilcox negligently. 
 
 "I say! Howards End— Howard's Ended!" cried 
 Dolly. "I'm rather on the spot this evening, eh?" 
 
204 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "I wish you'd ask whether Crane's 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." 
 r Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to 
 j outsiders, no Wilcox could live near, or near the posses- 
 \ sions 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, 
 Howards 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 ga- 
 rage, 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 civi- 
 lization. "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 Wickham Place. 
 
 Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which 
 had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. 
 She fotgot the higgage and the motor-cars, and the 
 hurrying men who know so much an^connect so litt£i 
 She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of 
 all earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards 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 Miss Avery. T hrough them: the notion 
 
Howards End 205 
 
 of ' ^rough " persisted; her mind trembled towards 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 di- 
 mensions 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 shrubberies, 
 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 mort- 
 gaged 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 de- 
 liverer. "Mismanagement did it— besides, the days for 
 small farms are over. It doesn't pay— except with in- 
 tensive cultivation. Small holdings, back to the land— 
 ah! philarithropic bunkum. Take it as a rule that noth- 
 ing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see 
 (they were standing at an upper window, the only one 
 which faced west) belongs to the people at the Park— 
 they made their pile over copper — good chaps. Avery's 
 Farm, Sishe's— what they call the Common, where you 
 see that mined oak — one after the other fell in, and so 
 did this, as near as is no matter." But Heniy 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 superannu- 
 ated tools; pulled down the outhouses; drained; thinned 
 out I don't know how many guelder-roses and elder- 
 trees; and inside the house I turned the old kitchen 
 into a hall, and made a kitchen behind where the dairy 
 
2o6 E. M. rORSTER 
 
 was. Garage 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 wych-elm that 
 she saw from the window was an English tree. No re- 
 port had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was 
 neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these 
 r61es 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 Lon- 
 don day, but to compare either to man, to woman, al- 
 ways 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 day is finished. 
 They entered the garden for a minute, and to Mr. Wil- 
 cox's surprise she was right. Teeth, pigs' teeth, could be 
 seen in the bark of the wych-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 an- 
 swer, for she, too, avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by 
 name. 
 
Howards End 207 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Evie heard of her father's engagement when she was 
 in tor a tennis tournament, and her play went simply to 
 pot. That she should marry and leave him had seemed 
 natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the same 
 was deceitful; and now Charles and Dolly said that it 
 was all her fault. "But I never dreamt of such a thing," 
 she grumbled. "Dad took me to call now and then, 
 and made me ask her to Simpson's. Well, I'm altogether 
 off Dad." It was also an insult to their mother's mem- 
 ory; there they were agreed, and Evie had the idea of 
 retuming Mrs. Wilcox's lace and jewellery "as a pro- 
 test." Against what it would protest she was not clear; 
 but being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation ap- 
 pealed to her, the more as she did not care for jewellery 
 or lace. Dolly then suggested that she and Uncle Percy 
 should pretend to break off their engagement, and 
 then perhaps Mr. Wilcox would quanel with Miss 
 Schlegel, and break off his; or Paul might be cabled for. 
 But at this point Charles told them not to talk non- 
 sense. So Evie settled to marry as soon as possible; it 
 was no good hanging about with these Schlegels eying 
 her. The date ot her wedding was consequently put for- 
 ward from September to August, and in the intoxica- 
 tion of presents she recovered much of her good-hu- 
 mour. 
 
 Margaret found that she was expected to figure at 
 this function, and to figure largely; it would be such an 
 opportunity, said Henry, for her to get to know his set. 
 Sir James Bidder would be there, and all the Cahills 
 and the Fussells, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Warrington 
 Wilcox, had fortunately got back from her tour round 
 the world. Henry she loved, but his set promised to be 
 another matter. He had not the knack of surrounding 
 
aoS £• M. FORSTER 
 
 himself with nice people— indeed, for a man of ability 
 and virtue his choice had been singularly unfortunate; 
 he had no guiding principle beyond a certain prefer- 
 ence for mediocrity; he was content to settle one of 
 the greatest things in life haphazard, and so, while his 
 investments went right, his friends generally went 
 wrong. She would be told: "Oh, So-and-so's a good sort 
 — a thundering good sort," and find on meeting him, 
 that he was a brute or a bore. If Henry had shown real 
 a£Eection, she woiild have understood, for affection ex- 
 plains everything. But he seemed without sentiment. 
 The "thundering good sort" might at any moment be- 
 come "a fellow for whom I never did have much use, 
 and have less now," and be shaken off cheerily into ob- 
 livion. Margaret had done the same as a schoolgirl. Now 
 she never forgot anyone for whom she had once cared; 
 she| connectedji though the connectioil might be bitter, 
 and she hoped that some day Henry would do the 
 same. 
 
 Evie was not to be married from Ducie Street. She 
 had a fancy for something rural, and, besides, no one 
 would be in London then, so she left her boxes for a 
 few weeks at Oniton Grange, and her banns were duly 
 published in the parish church, and for a couple of 
 days the little town, dreaming between the ruddy hills, 
 was roused by the clang of our civilization, and drew 
 up by the roadside to let the motors pass. Oniton had 
 been a discovery of Mr. Wilcox's-— a discovery of which 
 he was not altogether proud. It was up towards the 
 Welsh border, and so difficult of access that he had con- 
 cluded it must be something special. A ruined caitle 
 stood in the grounds. But having got there, what was 
 one to do? The shooting was bad, the fishing in- 
 different, and women-folk reported the scenery as noth- 
 ing much. The place turned out to be in the wrong part 
 of Shropshire, damn it, and though he never damned 
 his own property aloud, he was only waiting to get it 
 off his hands, and then to let fly. Evie's maniage 
 was its last appearance in public. As soon as a tenant 
 
Howards End 209 
 
 was found, it became a house for which he never had 
 had much use, and had less now, and, like Howards 
 End, faded into Limbo. 
 
 But on Margaret, Oniton was destined to make a 
 lasting impression. She regarded it as her future home, 
 and was anxious to start straight with the clergy,' etc., 
 and, if possible, to see something of the local life. It 
 was a market-town — as tiny a one as England possesses 
 —and had for ages served that lonely valley, and 
 guarded our marches against the Kelt. In spite of the 
 occasion, in spite of the numbing hilarity that greeted 
 her as soon as she got into the reserved saloon at Pad- 
 dington, her senses were awake and watching, and 
 though Oniton was to prove one of her innumerable 
 false starts, she never forgot it, nor the things that hap- 
 pened there. 
 
 The London party only numbered eight — the Fus- 
 sells, father and son, two Anglo-Indian ladies named 
 Mrs. Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs. Warrington 
 Wilcox and her daughter, and lastly, the little girl, 
 very smart and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, 
 and who kept a watchful eye on Margaret, the bride- 
 elect. Dolly was absent— a domestic event detained 
 her at Hilton; Paul had cabled a humorous message; 
 Charles was to meet them with a trio of motors at 
 Shrewsbury. Helen had refused her invitation; Tibby 
 had never answered his. The management was excel- 
 lent, as was to be expected with anything that Henry 
 undertook; one was conscious of his sensible and gen- 
 erous brain in the background. They were his guests 
 as soon as they reached the train; a special label for 
 their luggage; a courier; a special lunch; they had only 
 to look pleasant and, where possible, pretty. Margaret 
 thought with dismay of her own nuptials— presumably 
 under the management of Tibby. "Mr. Theobald 
 Schlegel and Miss Helen Schlegel request the pleasure 
 of Mrs. Plynlimmon's company on the occasion of the 
 marriage of their sister Margaret." The formula was in- 
 credible, but it must soon be printed and sent, and 
 
210 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 though Wickham Place need not compete with Oniton, 
 it must feed its guests properly, and provide them with 
 sufficient • chairs. Her wedding would either be ram- 
 shackly or bourgeois— she hoped the latter. Such an 
 affair as the present, staged with a deftness that was al- 
 most beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those of her 
 friends. 
 
 The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not 
 the worst background for conversation, and the journey 
 passed pleasantly enough. Nothing could have exceeded 
 the kindness of the two men. They raised windows for 
 some ladies, and lowered them for others, they rang the 
 bell for the servant, they identified the colleges as the 
 train slipped past Oxford, they caught books or bag- 
 purses in the act of tumbling on to the floor. Yet 
 there was nothing finicky about their politeness; it had 
 the Public School touch, and, though sedulous> was 
 virile. More battles than Waterloo have been won on 
 our playing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a charm of 
 which she did not wholly approve, and said nothing 
 1 when the Oxford colleges ■ were identified wrongly. 
 "Male and female created He them"; the journey to 
 Shrewsbury confirmed this questionable statement, and 
 the long glass saloon, that moved so easily and felt so 
 comfortable, became a forcing-house for the idea of sex. 
 
 At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for 
 sight-seeing, and while the others were finishing their 
 tea at the Raven, she annexed a motor and hurried over 
 the astonishing City. Her chauffeur was not the faithful 
 Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved making her 
 late. Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow, 
 was standing in front of the hotel when they returned. 
 It was perfectly all right, he told her; she was by no 
 means the last. And then he dived into the coffee-room, 
 and she heard him say: "For God's sake, hurry the 
 women up; we shall never be off," and Albert Fussell 
 reply: "Not I; I've done my share," and Colonel Fussell 
 opine that the ladies were getting themselves up to kill. 
 Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington's daughter) appeared, 
 
Howards End 
 
 211 
 
 and as she was his' cousin, Charles blew her up a little: 
 she had been changing her smart travelling hat for a 
 smart motor hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, lead- 
 ing the quiet child; the two Anglo-Indian ladies were 
 always last. Maids, courier, heavy luggage, had already 
 gone on by a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, 
 but there were five hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to 
 be packed, and five dust-cloaks to be put on, and to be 
 put oflE at the last moment, because Charles declared 
 them not necessary. The men presided over everything 
 with unfailing good-humour. By half past five the party 
 was ready, and went out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh 
 BridgeT 
 
 Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire. 
 Though robbed of half its magic by swift movement, 
 it still conveyed the sense of hills. They were nearing 
 the buttresses that force the Severn eastern and make 
 it an English stream, and the sun, sinking over the Sen- 
 tinels of Wales, was straight in their eyes. Having 
 picked up another guest, they turned southward, avoid- 
 ing the greater mountains, but conscious of an occa- 
 sional summit, rounded and mild, whose colouring dif- 
 fered in quality from thai of the lower earth, and whose 
 contours altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries were in t 
 progress behind those tossing horizons: the West, as 
 ever, was retreating with some secret which may not 
 be worth the discovery, but which no practical man will 
 ever discover. 
 
 They spoke of Tariff Reform. 
 
 Mrs. Wanington was just back from the Colonies. 
 Like many other critics of Empire, her mouth had been 
 stopped with food, and she could only exclaim at the 
 hospitality with which she had been received, and warn 
 the Mother Country against trifling with young Titans. 
 "They threaten to cut the painter," she cried, "and 
 where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, you'll undertake 
 to keep Henry sound about TarifiE Reform? It is our 
 last hope." 
 
 Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side, 
 
212 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 and they began to quote from their respective hand- 
 books while the motor carried them deep into the hills. 
 Curious these were, rather than impressive, for their 
 outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their sum- 
 mits suggested the handkerchiefs of a giant spread out 
 to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional 
 wood, an occasional "forest," treeless and brown, all 
 hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was 
 an agricultural green. The air grew cooler; they had sur- 
 mounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay below them 
 with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river- 
 girt peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion, 
 unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds 
 across the peninsula's neck— the sort of mansion that 
 was built all over England in the beginning of the last 
 century, while architecture was still an expression of 
 the national character. That was the Grange, remarked 
 Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake 
 on, and the motor slowed down and stopped. "I'm 
 sorry," said he, turning round. "Do you mind getting 
 out— by the door on the right? Steady on!" 
 
 "What's happened?" asked Mrs. Warrington. 
 
 Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of 
 Charles was heard saying: "Get out the women at once." 
 There was a concourse of males, and Margaret and her 
 companions were hustled out and received into the 
 second car. What had happened? As it started off again, 
 the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly 
 at them. 
 
 "What is it?" the ladies cried. 
 
 Charles drove them a hundred yards without speak- 
 ing. Then he said: "It's all right. Your car just touched 
 a dog." 
 
 "But stop!" cried Margaret, horrified. 
 
 "It didn't hurt him." 
 
 'T)idn't really hurt: him? " asked Myra. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Do please stop!" said Margaret, leaning forward. 
 
Howards End 212 
 
 She was standing up in the car, the other occupants 
 holding her knees to steady her. "I want to go back, 
 please." 
 
 Charles took no notice. 
 
 "We've left Mr. Fussell behind," said another; "and 
 Angelo, and Crane." 
 
 "Yes, but no woman." 
 
 "I expect a little of"— Mrs. Warrington scratched her 
 palm— "will be more to the point than one of us!" 
 
 "The insurance company sees to that," remarked 
 Charles, "and Albert will do the talking." 
 
 "I want to go back, though, I sayl" repeated Mar- 
 garet, getting angry. 
 
 Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refu- 
 gees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The 
 men are there," chorused the others. "Men will see to 
 it." 
 
 "The men can't see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! 
 Charles, I ask you to stop." 
 
 "Stopping's no good," drawled Charles. 
 
 "Isn't it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of 
 the car. 
 
 She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat 
 over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You've hurt 
 yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. 
 
 "Of course I've hurt myself!" she retorted. 
 
 "May I ask what—" 
 
 "There's nothing to ask," said Margaret. 
 
 "Your hand's bleeding." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "I'm in for a frightful row from the pater." 
 
 "You should have thought of that sooner, Charles." 
 
 Charles had never been in such a position before. It 
 was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from 
 him, and the sight was too strange to leave any room 
 for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught 
 them up: their sort he understood. He commanded 
 them to go back. 
 
214 ^- ^- FORSTER 
 
 Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. 
 
 "It's all right!" he called; "It wasn't a dog, it was a 
 cat." 
 
 "Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as 
 I saw it wasn't a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the 
 girl." But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why should 
 the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering behind 
 men, men sheltering behind servants — the whole sys- 
 tem's wrong, and she must challenge it. 
 
 "Miss Schlegel! 'Pon my word, you've hurt your 
 hand." 
 
 "I'm just going to see," said Margaret. "Don't you 
 wait, Mr. Fussell." 
 
 The second motor came round the comer. "It is all 
 right, madam," said Crane in his turn. He had taken to 
 call her madam. 
 
 "What's all right? The cat?" 
 
 "Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for 
 it." 
 
 "She was a very ruda girla," said Angelo from the third 
 motor thoughtfully. 
 
 "Wouldn't you have been rude?" 
 
 The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he 
 had not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it 
 pleased her. The situation became absurd. The gentle- 
 men were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers 
 of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her 
 hand. She yielded, apologizing slightly, and was led 
 back to the car, and soon the landscape resumed its mo- 
 tion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled 
 on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt 
 she had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole jour- 
 ney from London had been unreal. They had no part 
 with the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a 
 stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat 
 had been killed had lived more deeply than they. 
 
 "Oh, Henry," she exclaimed, "I have been so 
 naughty," for she had decided to take up this line. "We 
 ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I 
 
Howards End 215 
 
 would, and look!" She held out her bandaged hand. 
 "Your poor Meg went such a flop." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he 
 was standing to welcome his guests in the hall. 
 
 "Thinking it was a dog," added Mrs. Warrington. 
 
 "Ah, a dog's a companion!" said Colonel Fussell. "A 
 dog'U remember you." 
 
 "Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?" 
 
 "Not to speak about; and it's my left hand." 
 
 "Well, hurry up and change." 
 
 She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then 
 turned to his son. 
 
 "Now, Charles, what's happened?" 
 
 Charles was absolutely honest. He described what he 
 believed to have happened. Albert had flattened out a 
 cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost hex nerve, as any woman 
 might. She had been got safely into the other car, but 
 when it was in motion had leapt out again, in spite of 
 all that they could say. After walking a little on the road, 
 she had calmed down and had said that she was sorry. 
 His father accepted this explanation, and neither kne\y 
 that Margaret had artfully prepared the way for it. It 
 fitted in, too well with their view of feminine naturer-In 
 the smoking-room, after dinner, the Colonel put forward 
 the view that Miss Schlegel had jumped it out of dev- 
 ilry. Well he remembered as a young man, in the har- 
 bour of Gibraltar once, how a girl— a handsome girl, too 
 —had jumped overboard for a bet. He could see her now, 
 and all the lads overboard after her. But Charles and 
 Mr. Wilcox agreed it was much more probably nerves 
 in Miss Schlegel's case. Charles was depressed. That 
 woman had a tongue. She would bring worse disgrace on 
 his father before she had done with them. He stiolled , 
 out on to the castle mound to think the matter ovei. 
 The evening was exquisite. On three sides of him a little 
 river whispered,rfull of messages from the westp above 
 his head the rums made patterns against the iky. He 
 carefully reviewed their dealings with. this family, until 
 he fitted Helen, and Margaret, and Aunt Juley into an 
 
2l6 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him suspicious. 
 He had two children to look after, and more coming, 
 and day by day they seemed less likely to grow up rich 
 men. "It is all very well," he reflected, "the pater saying 
 that he will be just to all, but one can't be just indefi- 
 nitely. Money isn't elastic. What's to happen if Evie 
 has a family? And, come to that, so may the pater. 
 There'll not be enough to go round, for there's none 
 coming in, either through Dolly or Percy. It's damna- 
 ble!" He looked enviously at die Grange, whose win- 
 dows poured light and laughter. First and last, this 
 wedding would cost a pretty penny. Two ladies were 
 strolling up and down the garden terrace, and as the 
 syllables "Imperialism" were wafted to his ears, he 
 guessed that one of them was his aunt. She might have 
 helped him, if she too had not had a family to provide 
 for. "Everyone for himself," he repeated— a maxim 
 which had cheered him iii the past, but which rang 
 grimly enough among the ruins of Oniton. He lacked 
 his father's ability in business, and so had an ever 
 higher regard for money; unless he could inherit plenty, 
 he feared to leave his children poor.' 
 
 As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the terrace 
 and walked into the meadow; he recognized her as Mar- 
 garet by the white bandage that gleamed on her arm, 
 and put out his cigar, lest the gleam should betray him. 
 She climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times 
 stooped down, as if she was stroking the turf. It sounds 
 absolutely incredible, but for a moment Charles thought 
 that she was in love with him, and had come out to 
 tempt him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are 
 indeed the strong man's necessary complement, and 
 having no sense of humour, he could not purge himself 
 of the thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged 
 to his father, and his sister's wedding-guest, kept on her 
 way without noticing him, and he admitted that he had 
 wronged her on this point. But what was she doing? 
 Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and 
 catching her dress in brambles and burrs? As she edged 
 
Howard^ End 217 
 
 round the keep, she must have got to leeward and smelt 
 his cigar-smoke, for she exclaimed: "Hullo! Who's that?" 
 
 Charles made no answer. 
 
 "Saxon or Kelt?" she continued, laughing in the dark- 
 ness. "But it doesn't matter. Whichever you are, you will 
 have to listen to me. I love this place. I love Shropshire. 
 I hate London. I am glad that this will be my home. 
 Ah, dear"— she was now moving back towards the 
 house— "what a comfort to have arrived!" 
 
 "That woman means mischief," thought Charles, and 
 compressed his lips. In a few minutes he followed her 
 indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were 
 rising from the river, and presently it became invisible, 
 though it whispered more loudly. There had been a 
 heavy downpour in the Welsh hills. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The 
 weather promised well, and the outline of the castle 
 mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret 
 watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun 
 painted the rubble gold, and charged the white sky with 
 blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself together, 
 and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window 
 and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the 
 mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, 
 and only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper 
 reaches. 
 
 Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that 
 she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension that 
 held her. The rounded Druids of whorn she had caught 
 r-glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them 
 to England, the carelesslvjnodelled masses of the lower 
 hills, thrilled her with(poetnr. The house was insigni- 
 ficant, but the prospectfTOTi it would be an eternal 
 
2l8 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have 
 to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to 
 a rural hfe. Society, too, promised favourably. The rector 
 of the parish had dined with them last night, and she 
 found that he was a friend of her father's, and so knew 
 what to find in her. She liked him. He would introduce 
 hei to the town. While, on her other side. Sir James 
 Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, 
 and he would whip up the county families for twenty 
 miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden Seeds, 
 had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but 
 so long as Henry mistook them for the county families 
 when they did call, she was content. 
 
 Charles and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. 
 They were going for a morning dip, and a servant fol- 
 lowed them with their bathing-dresses. She had meant 
 to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the 
 day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by 
 watching their contretemps. In the first place the key 
 of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood 
 by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the 
 servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another 
 servant in the garden. Then came a diflSculty about a 
 spring-board, and soon three people were running back- 
 wards and forwards over the meadow, with orders and 
 counter orders and recriminations and apologies. Tf 
 Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; 
 if Tibby thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he 
 paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took ajivalk in 
 ( the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They 
 could not bathe without their appliances, though the 
 morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising 
 from the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of 
 the body after all? Could not the men whom they de- 
 spised as milksops beat them, even on their own ground? 
 She thought of the bathing arrangements as they 
 should be in her day— no worrying of servants, no ap- 
 pliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were dis- 
 turbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak 
 
Howards End 210 
 
 to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. 
 She called: "Good morning, dear," a httle sharply. Her 
 voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and 
 though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into 
 the shed, and was seen no more. 
 
 "Miss Wilcbx is up—" the child whispered, and then 
 became unintelligible. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 It sounded like "—cut-yoke— sack-back— " 
 
 "I can't hear." 
 
 "—On the bed— tissue-paper— " 
 
 Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and 
 that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie's room. 
 All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing 
 with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was 
 adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they 
 laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. 
 
 Margaret screamed a little too, but without convic- 
 tion. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. 
 Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. 
 
 Evie gasped: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, 
 we would rag just then!" Then Margaret went down to 
 breakfast. 
 
 Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke 
 little, and was, in Margaret's eyes, the only member of 
 their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could 
 not suppose him indifiEerent either to the loss of his 
 daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he 
 dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally— orders 
 that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired 
 after her hand; he set her to pour but the coffee and 
 Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came 
 down, there was a moment's awkwardness, and both 
 ladies rose to vacate their places. "Burton," called Henry, 
 "serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!" It wasn't 
 genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort— the sort that is 
 as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations 
 at board-meetings, Henry treated a marriage like a fu- 
 neral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole; 
 
 1 
 
220 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 and "Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy vic- 
 tory?" one would e:£claim at the dose. 
 
 After breakfast she claimed a few words with him. It 
 was always best to approach him formally. She asked 
 for the interview, because he was going on tc shoot 
 grouse tomorrow, and she was returning to Helen in 
 town. 
 
 "Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. 
 What do you want?" 
 
 "Nothing:" 
 
 "I was afraid something had gone wrong." 
 
 "No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk." 
 
 Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve 
 at the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her sur- 
 face could always respond to his without contempt, 
 though all her deeper being might be yearning to help 
 him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the 
 best, and the more she let herself love him, the more 
 chance was there that he would set his soul in order. 
 Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather 
 by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her 
 that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift 
 of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the 
 clean-shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills 
 the Monk and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed 
 a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved himwith too 
 clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned 
 trivialities, as today, or sprang kisses on her in the twi- 
 light, she could pardon him, she could respond. 
 
 "If there is this nasty curve," she suggested, "couldn't 
 we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie; 
 but the rest of us might very well go on first, and that 
 would mean fewer carriages." 
 
 "One can't have ladies walking through the Market 
 Square. The Fussells wouldn't like it; they were awfully 
 particular at Charles's wedding. My— she— one of our 
 party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was 
 just round the comer, and I shouldn't have minded; but 
 the Colonel made a great point of it." 
 
Howards End 221 
 
 "You men shouldn't be so chivalrous," said Mar- 
 garet thoughtfully. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 She knew why not, but said that she did not know. 
 
 He then announced that, unless she had anything 
 special to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and they 
 went off together in search of Burton. Though clumsy 
 and a little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine coun- 
 try-house. They clattered down flagged passages, looking 
 into room after room, and scaring unknown maids from 
 the performance of obscure duties. The wedding-break- 
 fast must be in readiness when they came back from 
 church, and tea would be served in the garden. The sight 
 of so many agitated and serious people made Margaret 
 smile, but she reflected that they were paid to be serious, 
 and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower wheels 
 of the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial 
 glory. A little boy blocked their way with pig-tails. His 
 mind could not grasp their greatness, and he said: "By 
 your leave; let me pass, please." Henry asked him where 
 Burton was. But the servants were so new that they did 
 not know one another's names. In the still-room sat the 
 band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of their 
 fee, and who were already drinking beer. Scents of Araby 
 came from the kitchen, mingled with cries. Margaret 
 knew what had happened there, for it happened at Wick- 
 ham Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over, 
 and the cook was throwing cedar-shavings to hide the 
 smell. At last they came upon the butler. Henry gave 
 him the keys, and handed Margaret down the cellar- 
 stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her 
 wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was aston- 
 ished at the sight. "We shall never get through it!" she 
 cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn into broth- 
 erhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had 
 again jumped out of the car while it was moving. 
 
 Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would 
 be no small business to remain herself, and yet to as- 
 similate such an establishment. She must remain her- 
 
222 K. M. FORSTER 
 
 self, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy 
 wife degrades the husband whom she accompanies, 
 and she must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, 
 since she had no right to marry a man and make him 
 uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. 
 The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than 
 its possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. 
 She was determined to create new sanctities among 
 these hills. 
 
 After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then 
 came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when 
 compared with the preparations for it. Everything went 
 like one o'clock. Mr. Cahill materialized out <)f space, 
 and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No 
 one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses, 
 or trod -on Evie's train, or cried. In a few minutes the 
 clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed, 
 and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the 
 dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was con- 
 vinced that they had not been married at all, and that 
 the Norman church had been intent all the time on 
 other business. 
 
 There were more documents to sign at the house, 
 and the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people 
 dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great 
 many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair 
 —not as big as Margaret's would be. She noted the 
 dishes and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she 
 might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she 
 hoped for something better than this blend of Sunday 
 church and fox-hunting. If only someone had been up- 
 set! But this wedding had gone off so particularly well— 
 "quite like a Durbar" in the opinion of Lady Edser, and 
 she thoroughly agreed with her. 
 
 So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and 
 bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the 
 second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. 
 Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to 
 
Howards End 223 
 
 her in the castle meadow and, in tones of unusual soft- 
 ness, said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off 
 so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and 
 blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his 
 intractable friends, and had made a special point of 
 kow-towing to the men. They were breaking camp this 
 evening: only the Warringtons and the quiet child would 
 stay the night, and the others were already moving to- 
 wards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did 
 go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of 
 the motor, I'm thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am 
 so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the 
 guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all 
 remember that we have no practical person among us, 
 except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments 
 on a large scale." 
 
 "I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, 
 it would be better to put everything into the hands of 
 Harrod's or Whitele5r's, or even to go to some hotel." 
 
 "You desire a hotel?" 
 
 "Yes, because— well, I mustn't interfere with you. No 
 doubt you want to be married from your old home." 
 
 "My old home's falling into pieces, Henry. I only want 
 my new. Isn't it a perfect evening— " 
 
 "The Alexandrina isn't bad—" 
 
 "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with 
 the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chim- 
 neys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey. 
 
 "It's off Curzon Street." 
 
 "Is it? Let's be married from off Curzon Street." 
 
 Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling 
 gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught 
 it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious 
 liquid was pouring towards them past Charles's bathing- 
 shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and 
 when they moved back to the house, she could not rec- 
 ognize the faces of people who were coming out of it. 
 A parlour-maid was preceding them. 
 
224 E- M. FORSTER 
 
 "Who are those people?" she asked. 
 
 "They're callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It's too late for 
 callers." 
 
 "Perhaps they're town people who want to see the 
 wedding presents." 
 
 "I'm not at home yet to townees." 
 
 "Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, 
 I will." 
 
 He thanked her. 
 
 Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed 
 that these were unpunctual guests, who would have to 
 be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles 
 were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. 
 She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one 
 of the group was Helen— Helen in her oldest clothes, 
 and dominated by that tense, wounding excitement 
 that had made her a terror in their nursery days. 
 
 "What is it?" she called. "Oh, what's wrong? Is Tibby 
 ill?" 
 
 Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. 
 Then she bore forward furiously. 
 
 "They're starving!" she shouted. "I found them starv- 
 
 ing!" 
 
 "Who? Why have you come?" 
 
 "The Basts." 
 
 "Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you 
 done now?" 
 
 "He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his 
 bank. Yes, he's done for. We upper classes have ruined 
 him, and I suppose you'll tell me it's the battle of life. 
 Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the 
 train." 
 
 "Helen, are you mad?" 
 
 "Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I'm mad. But I've brought 
 them. I'll stand injustice no longer. I'll show up the 
 wretchedness that lies under this luxury, this talk of 
 impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what we're 
 too slack to do ourselves." 
 
Howards End 225 
 
 "Have you actually brought two starving people from 
 London to Shropshire, Helen?" 
 
 Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and 
 her hysteria abated. "There was a restaurant car on the 
 train," she said. 
 
 "Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you know 
 it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won't have such 
 theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare youl" 
 she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie's 
 wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you've 
 a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look"— she indi- 
 cated the house — "servants, people out of the windows. 
 They think it's some vulgar scandal, and I must explain: 
 'Oh no, it's only my sister screaming, and only two 
 hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no 
 conceivable reason.' " 
 
 "Kindly take back that word 'hangers-on,' " said 
 Helen, ominously calm. 
 
 "Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath 
 was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry 
 about them, but it beats me why you've brought them 
 here, or why you're here yourself." 
 
 "It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox." 
 
 Marg3''et moved towards the house at this. She was 
 determined not to worry Henry. 
 
 "He's going to Scotland. ^ know he is. I insist on see- 
 ing him." 
 
 "Yes, tomorrow." 
 
 "I knew it was our last chance." 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying 
 to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What 
 view do you take of it?" 
 
 "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen. 
 
 Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was 
 shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially 
 stupid that she could not grasp what was happening- 
 She only knew that the lady had swept down like a 
 whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the 
 
226 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 furniture, provided them with a dinner and breakfast, 
 and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morn- 
 ing. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morn- 
 ing came, had suggested that they shouldn't go. But 
 she, half mesmerized, had obeyed. The lady had told 
 them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had 
 accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington 
 into a railway caniage that shook, and grew hot, and 
 grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid 
 torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said 
 the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do 
 you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling 
 rather better among a lot of flowers. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't want to intrude," began Leonard, 
 in answer to Margaret's question. "But you have been 
 so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Por- 
 phyrion that I wondered— why, I wondered whether—" 
 
 "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion 
 again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this had been a cheerful 
 business. A bright evening's work that was on Chelsea 
 Embankment." 
 
 Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. 
 
 "I don't understand. You left the Porphyrion be- 
 cause we suggested it was a bad concern, didn't you?" 
 
 "That's right." 
 
 "And went into a bank instead?" 
 
 "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced 
 their staff after he had been in a month, and now he's 
 penniless, and I consider that we and our informant 
 are directly to blame." 
 
 "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. 
 
 "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it's no good mincing 
 matters. You have done yourself no good by coming 
 here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call 
 him to account for a chance remark, you will make a 
 very great mistake." 
 
 "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. 
 
 "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has 
 
Howards End 227 
 
 put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you 
 so. It's too late to get to town, but you'll find a com- 
 fortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and 
 I hope you'll be my guests there." 
 
 "That isn't what I want. Miss Schlegel," said Leon- 
 ard. "You're very kind, and no doubt it's a false posi- 
 tion, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at 
 all." i 
 
 "It's work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can't you 
 see?" 
 
 Then he said: '7acky, let's go. We're more bother 
 than we're worth. We're costing these ladies pounds and 
 pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. 
 There's nothing we're good enough to do." 
 
 "We would like to find you work," said Margaret 
 rather conventionally. "We want to— I, like my sister. 
 You're only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have 
 a good night's rest, and some day you shall pay me back 
 the bill, if you prefer it." 
 
 But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments 
 men see clearly. "You don't know what you're talking 
 about," he said. "I shall never get work how. If rich 
 people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not 
 I. I had my groove, and I've got out of it. I could do 
 one particular branch of insurance in one particular 
 office well enough to command a salary, but that's all. 
 Poetry's nothing. Miss Schlegel. One's thoughts about 
 this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, 
 it you'll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty 
 once loses his own particular job, it's all over with him. 
 I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them 
 money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. 
 It's no good. It's the whole world pulling. There always 
 will be rich and poor." 
 
 He ceased. 
 
 "Won't you have something to eat?" said Margaret. 
 "I don't know what to do. It isn't my house, and though 
 Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any 
 
228 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 other, time— as I say, I don't know what to do, but I 
 undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, oflEer them 
 something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." 
 
 They moved to a long table behind which a servant 
 was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, 
 coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact: 
 their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. 
 Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left 
 theih whispering together and had a few more words 
 with Helen. 
 
 She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he's 
 worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." 
 
 "No, indirectly Via Mr. Wilcox." 
 
 "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up t^at 
 attitude, I'll do nothing. No doubt you're right logically, 
 and are entitled to say a great many scathing things 
 about Henry. Only, I won't have it. So choose." 
 
 Helen looked at the sunset. 
 
 "If you promise to take them quietly to the George, 
 I will speak to Henry about them— in my own way, 
 mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about 
 justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a ques- 
 tion of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants 
 work, and that we can't give him, but possibly Henry 
 can." 
 
 "It's his duty to," grumbled Helen. 
 
 "Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with 
 the characters of various people whom we know, and 
 how, things being as they are, things may be made a 
 little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all 
 business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk 
 of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little bet- 
 ter." 
 
 "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." 
 
 "Take them off to the George, then, and I'll try. Poor 
 creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she 
 added: "I haven't nearly done with you, though, Helen. 
 You have been most self-indulgent. I can't get over it. 
 You have less restraint rather than more as you grow 
 
Howards End 229 
 
 older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan't 
 have happy lives." 
 
 She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting 
 down: these physical matters were important. "Was it 
 townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. 
 
 "You'll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting 
 down beside him. "It's all right now, but it was my sis- 
 ter." 
 
 "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she 
 refused the invitation. I thought she despised weddings." 
 
 "Don't get up. She has not come to the wedding. 
 I've bundled her off to the George." 
 
 Inherently hospitable, he protested. 
 
 "No; she has two of her prot^g^s with her, and must 
 keep with them." 
 
 "Let 'em all come." 
 
 "My dear Henry, did you see them?" 
 
 "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, 
 certainly." 
 
 "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch 
 sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" 
 
 "What! are they out beanfeasting?" 
 
 "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on 
 I want to talk to you about them." 
 
 She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing 
 with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from com- 
 radeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he 
 desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why 
 later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." 
 
 "Shall I?" 
 
 "If it isn't a long story." 
 
 "Oh, not five minutes; but there's a sting at the end 
 of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your 
 office." 
 
 "What are his qualifications?" 
 
 "I don't know. He's a clerk." 
 
 "How old?" 
 
 "Twenty-five, perhaps." 
 
 "What's his name?" 
 
230 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him 
 that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped her- 
 self. It had not been a successful meeting. 
 
 "Where was he before?" 
 
 "Dempster's Bank." 
 
 "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering noth- 
 ing. 
 
 "They reduced their staff." 
 
 "All right; I'll see him." 
 
 It was the reward of her tact and devotion through 
 the day. Now she understood why some women prefer 
 influence to rights. Mrs. Plynliminon, when condemn- 
 ing suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can't in- 
 fluence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to 
 be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she 
 was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at hei 
 little victory, she knew that she had won it by the meth- 
 ods of the harem. 
 
 "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I 
 don't know whether he's qualified." 
 
 "I'll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn't be 
 taken as a precedent." 
 
 "No, of course— of course—" 
 
 "I can't fit in your proteges every day. Business would 
 suffer." 
 
 "I can promise you he's the last. He— he's rather a 
 special case." 
 
 "Prot^g^s always are." 
 
 She let it stand at that. He rose with a httle extra 
 touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help 
 her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was 
 and Henry as Helen thought he ought to bel And she 
 herself— hovering as usual between the two, now ac- 
 cepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister 
 for Trath. Love and Truth— their warfare seems eternal. 
 Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they 
 were one, hfe itself, like the spirits when Prospero was 
 reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into 
 thin air. 
 
Howards End 231 
 
 "Your prot6g6 has made us late," said he. "The Fus- 
 sells will just be starting." 
 
 On the whole, she sided with men as they are. Henry 
 would save the Basts, as he had saved Howards End, 
 while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics 
 of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world 
 has been built slapdash, and the beauty of mountain 
 and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which 
 the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like her- 
 self, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its 
 castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border war- 
 fare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Kelt, between 
 things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more 
 the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars" 
 were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest 
 for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Mar- 
 garet descended the mound on her lover's arm, she felt 
 that she was having her share. 
 
 To her annoyance, Mrs, Bast was still in the garden; 
 the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her 
 meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found 
 this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her 
 hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the 
 motive ot her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again 
 odours from the abyss— odours the more disturbing 
 because they were involuntary. For there was no malice 
 in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an 
 empty champagne glass in the othei, doing no harm 
 to anybody. 
 
 "She's overtired," Margaret whispered. 
 
 "She's something else," said Henry. "This won't do. 
 I can't have her in my garden in this state." 
 
 "Is she—" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now 
 that she was going to marry him, he had grown particu- 
 lar. He discountenanced risqu6 conversations now. 
 
 Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, 
 which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. 
 
 "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," 
 he said sharply. 
 
232 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!" 
 
 '"Ne crois pas que le man lui ressemble," apolo- 
 gized Margaret. "II est tout k fait diftdrent." 
 
 "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. 
 
 Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I can't congratulate 
 you on your prot6g6s," he remarked. 
 
 ^'Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?" 
 
 "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering 
 up her skirts. 
 
 Jacky pointed with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you 
 are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." 
 
 "Henry, I am awfully sorry." 
 
 "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so 
 sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scan- 
 dalized than the facts demanded. 
 
 "To have brought this down on you." 
 
 "Pray don't apologize." 
 
 The voice continued. 
 
 "Why does she call you 'Hen'?" said Margaret inno- 
 cently. "Has she ever seen you before?" 
 
 "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn't seen 
 Hen? He's serving you like me, my dear. These boys! 
 You wait— Still we love 'em." 
 
 "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. 
 
 Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don't know 
 what it is all about," she said. "Let's come in." 
 
 But he thought she was acting. He thought he was 
 trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don't you 
 indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratu- 
 late you on the success of your plan." 
 
 "This is Helen's plan, not mine." 
 
 "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very 
 well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Mar- 
 garet. You are quite right— it was necessary. I am a man, 
 and have lived a man's past. I have the honour to re- 
 lease you from your engagement." 
 
 Still she could not understand. She knew of life's 
 seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. 
 
Howards End 233 
 
 More words from Jacky were necessary — words una 
 quivocal, undenied. 
 
 "So that—" burst from her, and she went indoors. 
 She stopped herself from saying more. 
 
 "So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting 
 ready to start in the hall. 
 
 "We were saying— Henry and I were just having the 
 fiercest argument, my point being—" Seizing his fur 
 coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He 
 protested, and there was a playful little scene. 
 
 "No, let me do that," said Henry, following. 
 
 "Thanks so much! You see— he has forgiven me!" 
 
 The Colonel said gallantly: "I don't expect there's 
 much to forgive." 
 
 He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an 
 interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been 
 sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering, still 
 thanking their host and patronizing their future hostess, 
 the guests were borne away. 
 
 Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been 
 your mistress?" 
 
 "You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied- 
 
 "When, please?" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "When, please?" 
 
 "Ten years ago." 
 
 She left him without a word. For it was not her trag 
 edy: it was Mrs. Wilcox's. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of 
 eight pounds in making some people ill and others an- 
 gry. Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and 
 had left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the 
 night in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces 
 
2^4 ^' M. FORSTER 
 
 had made the wave flow. At all events, no hann was 
 done. Margaret would play the game properly iiow, and 
 though Helen disapproved of her sister's methods, 
 she knew that the Basts would benefit by them in the 
 long run. ^ 
 
 "Mr. Wilcox is so illogical," she explained to Leonard, 
 who had put his wife to bed and was sitting with her in 
 the empty coflEee-room. "If we told him it was his duty 
 to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact is, he 
 isn't properly educated. I don't want to set you against 
 him, but you'll find him a trial." 
 
 "I can never thank you sufiBciently, Miss Schlegel," 
 was all that Leonard felt equal to. 
 
 "I believe in personal responsibility. Don't you? And 
 in personal everything. I hate— I suppose I oughtn't 
 to say that— but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack 
 surely. Or perhaps it isn't their fault. Perhaps the little 
 thing that says T is missing out of the middle of thdr 
 heads, and then it's a, waste of time to blame them. 
 There's a nightmare of a theory that says a special race 
 is being born which will rule the rest of us in the future 
 just because it lacks the little thing that says 'L' Had 
 you heard that?" 
 
 "I get no time for reading." 
 
 "Had you thought it, then? That there are two kinds 
 of people— our kind, who live straight from the middle 
 of their heads, and the other kind who can't, because 
 their heads have no middle? They can't say 'L' They 
 aren't in fact, and so the/re supermen. Pierpont Mor- 
 gan has never said 'I' in his life." 
 
 Lepnard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted 
 intellectual conversation, she must have it. She was 
 more important than his ruined past. "I never got on 
 to Nietzche," he said. "But I always understood that 
 those supermen were rather what you may call egoists." 
 
 "Oh, no, that's wrong," replied Helen. "No superman 
 ever said 'I want,' because T want' must lead to the ques- 
 tion 'Who am I?' and so to Pity and to Justice. He only 
 savs 'want.' 'Want Europe,' if he's Napoleon: 'want 
 
Howards End 235 
 
 wives,' if he's Bluebeard; 'want Botticelli,' if he's Pier- 
 pont Morgan. Never the T; and if you could pierce 
 through him, you'd find panic and emptiness in the 
 middle." 
 
 Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said: 
 "May I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both 
 the sort that say T?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "And your sister too?" 
 
 "Of course," repeated Helen, a httle sharply. She was 
 annoyed with Margaret, but did not want her discussed. 
 "All presentable people say 'I.' " 
 
 "But Mr. Wilcox— he is not perhaps—" 
 
 "I don't know that it's any good discussing Mr. Wil- 
 cox either." 
 
 "Quite so, quite so," he agreed. Helen asked herself 
 why she had snubbed him. Once or twice during the 
 day she had encouraged him to criticize, and then had 
 pulled him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming? 
 If so, it was disgusting of her. 
 
 But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Every- 
 thing she did was natural, and incapable of causing of- 
 fence. While the Miss Schlegels were together, he had 
 felt them scarcely human— a sort of admonitory whirl- 
 igig. But a Miss Schlegel alone was different. She was 
 in Helen's case unmarried, in Margaret's about to be 
 married, in neither case an echo of her sister. A light 
 had fallen at last into this rich upper world, and he saw 
 that it was full of men and women, some of whom 
 were more friendly to him than others. Helen had be- 
 come "his" Miss Schlegel, who scolded him and cor- 
 responded with him, and had swept down yesterday 
 with grateful vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, 
 was severe and remote. He would not presume to help 
 her, for instance. He had never liked her, and began to 
 think that his original impression was true, and that 
 her sister did not like her either. Helen was certainly 
 lonely. She, who gave away so much, was receiving too 
 little. Leonard was pleased to think that he could spare 
 
236 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 her vexation by holding his tongue and concealing what 
 he knew about Mr. Wilcox. Jacky had announced her 
 discovery when he fetched her from the lawn. After the 
 first shock, he did not mind for himself. By now he had 
 no illusions about his wife, and this was only one new 
 stain on the face of a love that had never been pure. To 
 keep perfection perfect, that should be his ideal, if the 
 future gave him time to have ideals. Helen, and Mar- 
 garet for Helen's sake, must not know. 
 
 Helen disconcerted him by turning the conversation to 
 his wife. "Mrs. Bast— does she ever say T?" she asked, 
 half mischievously, and then: "Is she very tired?" 
 
 "It's better she stops in her room," said Leonard. 
 . "Shall I sit up with her?" 
 
 "No, thank you; she does not need company." 
 
 "Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?" 
 
 Leonard blushed up to his eyes. 
 
 "You ought to know my ways by now. Does that ques- 
 tion ofiEend you?" 
 
 "No, oh no. Miss Schlegel, no." 
 
 "Because I love honesty. Don't pretend your mar- 
 riage has been a happy one. You and she can have noth- 
 ing in common." 
 
 He did not deny it, but said shyly: "I suppose that's 
 pretty obvious; but Jacky never meant to do anybody 
 any harm. When things went wrong, or I heard things, 
 I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back, it's 
 more mine. I needn't have married her, but as I have, I 
 must stick to her and keep her." 
 
 "How long have you been married?" 
 ."Nearly three years." 
 
 "What did your people say?" 
 
 "They will not have anything to do with us. They had 
 a sort of family council when they heard I was married, 
 and cut us off altogether." 
 
 Helen began to pace up and down the room. "My 
 good boy, what a mess!" she said gently. "Who are your 
 people?" 
 
 He could answer this. His parents, who were dead, 
 
Howards End 237 
 
 had been in trade; his sisters had married commercial 
 taavellers; his brother was a lay reader. 
 
 "And your grandparents?" 
 
 Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful 
 up to now. "They were just nothing at all," he said, 
 "—agricultural labourers and that sort." 
 
 "So! From which part?" 
 
 "Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother's father— he, 
 oddly enough, came from these parts round here." 
 
 "From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My 
 mother's people were Lancashire. But why do your 
 brother and your sisters object to Mrs. Bast?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know." 
 
 "Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can 
 bear anything you tell me, and the more you tell, the 
 more I shall be able to help. Have they heard anything 
 against her?" 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 "I think I have guessed now," said Helen very gravely. 
 
 "I don't think so. Miss Schlegel; I hope not." 
 
 "We must be honest, even over these things. I have 
 guessed. I am frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does 
 uuot make the least difference to me. I shall feel just the 
 same to both of you. I blame, not your wife for these 
 things, but men." 
 
 Leonard left it at that— so long as she did not guess 
 the man. She stood at the window and slowly pulled up 
 the blinds. The hotel looked over a dark square. The 
 mists had begun. When she turned back to him hei eyes 
 were shining. 
 
 "Don't you worry," he pleaded. "I can't bear that. We 
 shall be all right if I get work. If I could only get work 
 —something regular to do. Then it wouldn't be so bad 
 again. I don't trouble after books as I used. I can imag- 
 ine that with regular work we should settle down again. 
 It stops one thinking." 
 
 "Settle down to what?" 
 
 "Oh, just settle down." 
 
 "And that's to be life!" said Helen, with a catch in 
 
238 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 her throat. "How can you, with all the beautiful things 
 to see and do— with music— with walking at night—" 
 
 "Walking is well enough when-a man's in work," he 
 answered. "Oh, I did talk a lot of nonsense once, but 
 there's nothing like a bailiff in the house to drive it out 
 of you. When I saw you fingering my Ruskins and Ste- 
 vensons, I seemed to see life straight real, and it isn't a 
 pretty sight. My books are back again, thanks to you, 
 but they'll never be the same to me again, and I shan't 
 ever again think night in the woods is wonderful." 
 
 "WTiy not?" asked Helen, throwing up the window. 
 
 "Because I see one must have money." 
 
 "Well, you're wrong." 
 
 "I wish I was wrong, but— the clergyman— he has 
 money on his own, or else he's paid; &e poet or the 
 musician— just the same; the tramp— he's no different. 
 The tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, and is paid 
 for with other people's money. Miss Schlegel, the real 
 thing's money and all the rest is a dream." 
 
 "You're still wrong. You've forgotten Death." 
 
 Leonard could not understand. 
 
 "If we lived for ever, what you say would be true. But 
 we have to die, we have to leave life presently. Injustice 
 and greed would be the real thing if we lived for ever. 
 As it is, we must hold to other things, because Death 
 is coming. I love Death— not morbidly, but because He 
 explains. He shows me the emptiness of Money. Death 
 and Money are the eterrial foes. Not Death and Life. 
 Never mind what hes behind Death, Mr. Bast, but be 
 sure that the poet and the musician and the tramp will 
 be happier in it than the man who has never leamt to 
 say 'I am I.' " 
 
 "I wonder." 
 
 "We are all in a mist— I know but I can help you tliis 
 far— men like the Wilcoxes are deeper in the mist than 
 any. Sane, sound Englishmen! building up empires, 
 levelling all the world into what they call common sense. 
 But mention Death to them arid they're offended, be- 
 
Howards End 239 
 
 cause Death's really Imperial, and He cries out against 
 thenv for ever." 
 
 "I am as afraid of Death as any one." 
 
 ••But not of the idea of Death." 
 
 "But what is the difference?" 
 
 "Infinite difiEerence," said Helen, more gravely than 
 before. 
 
 Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense 
 of great things sweeping out of the shrouded night. But 
 he could not receive them, because his heart was still 
 full of little things. As the lost umbrella had spoilt the 
 concert as Queen's Hall, so the lost situation was ob- 
 scuring the diviner harmonies now. Death, Life, and 
 Materialism were fine words, but would Mr. Wilcox take 
 him on as a clerk? Talk as one would, Mr. Wilcox was 
 king of this world, the superman, with his own morality, 
 whose head remained in the clouds. 
 
 "I must be stupid," he said apologetically. 
 
 While to Helen the paradox became clearer and 
 clearer. ''Death destroys a man: the idea of Death saves 
 him." Behind the coffins and the skeletons that stay the 
 vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that is 
 great in^ us responds to it. Men of the world may recoil 
 from the charnel-house that they will one day enter, but 
 Love knows better. Death is his toe, but his peer, and in 
 their age-long struggle the thews of Love have been 
 strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is no 
 one who can stand against him. 
 
 "So never give in," continued the girl, and restated 
 again and again the vague yet convincing plea that the 
 Invisible lodges against the Visible. Her excitement 
 grew as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard 
 to the earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted her. 
 Presently the waitress entered and gave her a letter from 
 Margaret. Another note, addressed to Leonard, was in- 
 side. They read them, listening to the murmurings of 
 the river. 
 
2^ E. M. FORSTER 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 For many hours Margaret did nothing; then she con- 
 trolled herself, and wrote some letters. She was too 
 bruised to speak to Henry; she could pity him, and even 
 determine to marry him, but as yet all lay too deep in 
 her heart for speech. On the surface the sense of his 
 degradation was too strong. She could not command 
 voice or look, and the gentle words that she forced out 
 through her pen seemed to proceed from some other 
 person. 
 
 "My dearest boy," she began, "this is not to part us. 
 It is everything or nothing, and I mean it to be nothing. 
 It happened long before we ever met, and even if it had 
 happened since, I should be writing the same, I hope. 
 I do understand." 
 
 But she crossed out "I do understand"; it struck a 
 false note. Henry could not bear to be understood. She 
 also crossed out "It is everything or nothing." Henry 
 would resent so strong a grasp of the situation. She must 
 not comment; comment is unfeminine. 
 
 "I think that'll about do," she thought. 
 
 Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was 
 he worth all this bother? To have yielded to a woman 
 of that sort was everything, yes, it was, and she could 
 not be his wife. She tried to translate his temptation 
 into Jier own language, and her brain reeled. Men must 
 be diflferent, even to want to yield to such a temptation. 
 Her belief in comradeship was stifled, and she saw life 
 as from that glass saloon on the Great Western, which 
 sheltered male and female alike from the fresh air. Are 
 the sexes really races, each with its own code of moral- 
 I ity, and their mutual love a mere device of Nature to 
 'keep things going? Strip human intercourse of the pro- 
 prieties, and is it reduced to this? Her judgment told 
 
Howards End 241 
 
 her no. She knew that out of Nature's device we have 
 built a magic that will win us immortality. Far more 
 mysterious than the call of sex to sex is the tenderness 
 that we throw into that call; far wider is the gulf be- 
 tween us and the farmyard than between the farmyard 
 and the garbage that nourishes it. We are evolving, in 
 ways that Science cannot measure, to ends that The- 
 ology dares not contemplate. "Men did produce one 
 jewel," the gods will say, and, saying, will give us im- 
 mortality. Margaret knew all this, but for the moment 
 she could not feel it, and transformed the marriage of 
 Evie and Mr. Cahill into a carnival of fools, and her 
 own marriage— too miserable to think of that, she tore 
 up the letter, and then wrote another: 
 
 Dear Mr. Bast, 
 
 I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I 
 promised, and am sorry to say that he has no vacancy 
 for you. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 M. J. SCHLEGEL 
 
 She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she 
 took less trouble than she might have done; but her 
 head was aching, and she could not stop to pick her 
 words: 
 
 Dear Helen, 
 
 Give him this. The Basts are no good. Henry 
 found the woman drunk on the lawn. I am having a 
 room got ready for you here, and will you please come 
 round at once on getting this? The Basts are not at all the 
 type we should trouble about. I may go round to them 
 myself in the morning, and do anything that is fear. 
 
 M 
 
 In writing this, Margaret felt that she was being prac- 
 tical. Something might be arranged for the Basts later 
 on, but they must be silenced for the moment. She 
 hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman and 
 Helen. She rang the bell for a servant, but no one an- 
 
242 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 swered it; Mr. Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone to 
 bed, and the kitchen was abandoned to Satumaha. Con- 
 sequently she went over to the George herself. She did 
 not enter the hotel, for discussion would have been 
 perilous, and, saying that the letter was important, she 
 gave it to the waitress. As she recrossed the square she 
 saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking out of the window of 
 the coflEee-room, and feared she was already too late. 
 Her task was not yet over; she ought to tell Henry what 
 $he had done. 
 
 This came easily, tor she saw him in the hall. The 
 night wind had been rattling the pictures against the 
 wall, and the noise had disturbed him. 
 
 "Who's there?" he called, quite the householder. 
 
 Margaret walked in and past him. 
 
 "I have asked Helen to sleep," she said. "She is best 
 here; so don't lock the front door." 
 
 "I thought someone had got in," said Henry. 
 
 "At the same time I told the man that we could do 
 nothing for him. I don't know about later, but now the 
 Basts must clearly go." 
 
 "Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after 
 all?" 
 
 "Probably." 
 
 "Is she to be shown up to your room?" 
 
 "I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going to 
 bed. Will you tell the servants about Helen? Could 
 someone go to carry her bag?" 
 
 He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to 
 summon the servants. 
 
 "You must make more noise than that if you want 
 them to hear." 
 
 Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came 
 shouts of laughter. "Far too much screaming there," 
 he said, and strode towards it. Margaret went upstairs, 
 uncertain whether to be glad that they had met, or 
 sorry. They had behaved as if nothing had happened, 
 and her deepest instincts told her that this was wrong. 
 For his own sake, some explanation was due. 
 
Howards End 243 
 
 And yet— what could an explanation tell her? A date, 
 a place, a few details, which she could imagine all too 
 cleariy. Now that the first shock was over, she saw that 
 there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Bast. Henry's 
 inner life had long laid open to her— his intellectual 
 confusion, his obtuseness to personal influence, his 
 strong but furtive passions. Should she refuse him be- 
 cause his outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Perhaps, 
 if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was done 
 long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. 
 She told herself that Mrs. Wilcox's wrong was her own. 
 But she -was not a barren theorist. As she undressed, her 
 anger, her regard for the dead, her desire for a scene, all 
 grew weak. Henry must have it as he liked, for she loved 
 him, and some day she would use her love to make him 
 a better man. 
 
 Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this 
 crisis. Pity, if one may generalize, is at the bottom of 
 woman. When men like/S)it is for our better qualities, 
 and however tender their liking, we dare not- be un- 
 worthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthi- 
 ness stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, 
 for good or for evil. 
 
 Here was the core of the question. Henry must be 
 forgiven, and made better by love; nothing else mat- 
 tered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must 
 be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in pro- 
 portion now, and she, too, would pity the man who was 
 blundering up and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox 
 known of his trespass? An interesting question, but 
 Margaret fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled 
 by the murmurs of the river that descended all the night 
 trom Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home, 
 colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for 
 the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morn- 
 ing mists. 
 
244 ^' **• ^o**'™* 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 "Henry dear " was her greeting. 
 
 He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning 
 
 the Times. His sister-in-law was packing. She knelt by 
 
 him and took the paperfrom him, feeling that it was 
 
 funusually heavy and thick] Then, putting her face where 
 
 Wt had been, she looked up in his eyes. 
 
 "Henry dear, look at me. No, I won't have you shirk- 
 ing. Look at me. There. That's all." 
 
 "You're referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I 
 have released you from your engagement. I could find 
 excuses, but I won't. No, I won't. A thousand times 
 no. I'm a bad lot, and must be left at that." 
 
 Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was build- 
 ing a new one. He could no longer appear respectable 
 to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. 
 It was not true repentance. 
 
 "Leave it where you will, boy. It's not going to trouble 
 us: I know what I'm talking about, and it will make no 
 difference." 
 
 "No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when 
 you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was 
 annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have pre- 
 ferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. 
 Against the tide of his sin Sowed the feeling that she 
 was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; 
 they had read books that are suitable for men only. And 
 though he had dreaded a scene, and though she had 
 determined against one, there was a scene, all the same. 
 It was somehow imperative. 
 
 "I am unworthy of you," he began. "Had I been 
 worthy, I should not have released you from your en- 
 gagement. I know what I am talking about. I can't bear 
 to talk of such things. We had better leave it," 
 
Howards End 245 
 
 She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, ris- 
 ing to his feet, went on: "You, with your sheltered life, 
 and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and 
 your sister, and women like you— I say, how can you 
 guess the temptations that lie round a man?" 
 
 "It is difficult for us," said Margaret; "but if we are 
 worth marrying, we do guess." 
 
 "Cut oflE from decent society and family ties, what do 
 you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows 
 overseas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter ex- 
 perience, and yet you say it makes 'no difference.' " 
 
 "Not to me." 
 
 He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard 
 and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes. Being 
 the last down, she turned out the spirit-lamp that kept 
 them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew that 
 Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing 
 out the gulf between the male soul and the female, and 
 she did not desire to hear him on this point. 
 
 "Did Helen come?" she asked. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "But that won't do at all, at all! We don't want her 
 gossiping with Mrs. Bast." 
 
 "Good God! no!" he exclaimed, suddenly natural. 
 Then he caught himself up. "Let them gossip. My 
 game's up, though I thank you for your unselfishness- 
 little as my thanks are worth." 
 
 "Didn't she send me a message or anything?" 
 
 "I heard of none." 
 
 "Would you ring the bell, please?" 
 
 "What to do?" 
 
 "Why, to inquire." 
 
 He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal. 
 Margaret poured herself out some coffee. The butler 
 came, and said that Miss Schlegel had slept at the 
 George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to 
 the George? 
 
 "I'll go, thank you," said Margaret, and dismissed 
 him. 
 
246 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "It is no good," said Henry. "Those things leak out; 
 you cannot stop a story once it has started. I have 
 known cases of other men — I despised them once, I 
 thought that I'm different, I shall never be tempted. Oh, 
 Margaret — " He came and sat down near her, impro- 
 vising emotion. She could not bear to listen to him. 
 "We fellows all come to grief once in our time. Will 
 you believe that? There are moments when the strongest 
 man— 'Let him who standeth, take heed lest he fall.' 
 That's true, isn't it? If you knew all, you would excuse 
 me. I was far from good influences— far even from Eng- 
 land. I was very, very lonely, and longed for a woman's 
 voice. That's enough. I have told you too much already 
 for you to forgive me now." 
 
 "Yes, that's enough, dear." 
 
 "I have"— he lowered his voice— "I have been through 
 hdl." 
 
 Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he 
 sufiFered tortures of remorse, or had it been "There! 
 that's over. Now for respectable life again?" The latter, 
 if she read him rightly. A man who has been through 
 hell does not boast of his virility. He is humble and 
 hides it, if, indeed, it still exists. Only in legend does the 
 sinner come forth penitent, but terrible, to conquer pure 
 woman by his resistless power. Henry was anxious to 
 be terrible, but had not got it in him. He was a good 
 average Englishman who had slipped. The really cul- 
 pable point— his faithlessness to Mrs. Wilcox— never 
 seemed to strike him. She longed to mention Mrs. Wil- 
 cox. 
 
 And bit by bit the story was told her. If was a very 
 simple story. Ten years ago was the time, a garrison 
 town in Cyprus the place. Now and then he asked her 
 whether she could possibly forgive him, and she an- 
 swered: "I have already forgiven you, Henry." She chose 
 her words carefully, and so saved him from panic. She 
 played the girl, until he could rebuild his fortress and 
 iiide his soul from the world. When the butler came to 
 clear away, Henry was in a very different mood— asked 
 
Howards End 247 
 
 the fellow what he was in such a hurry for, complained 
 of the noise last night in the servants' hall. Margaret 
 looked intently at the butler. He, as a handsome young 
 man, was faintly attractive to her as a woman— an at- 
 traction so faint as scarcely to be perceptible, yet the 
 skies would have fallen if she had mentioned it to 
 Henry. 
 
 On her return from the George the building opera- 
 tions were complete, and the old Henry fronted her, 
 competent, cynical, and kind. He had made a clean 
 breast, had been forgiven, and the great thing now was 
 to forget his failure, and to send it the way of other 
 unsucce^ful investments. Jacky rejoined Howards End 
 and Ducie Street, and the vermilion motor-car, and the 
 Argentine Hard Dollars, and all the things and people 
 for whom he had never had much use and had less now. 
 Their memory hampered him. He could scarcely attend 
 to Margaret, who brought back disquieting news from 
 the George. Helen and her clients had gone. 
 
 "Well, let them go— the man and his wife, I mean, 
 for the more we see of your sister the better." 
 
 "But they have gone separately— Helen very early, 
 the Basts just before I arrived. They have left no mes- 
 sage. They have answered neither of my notes. I don't 
 like to think what it all means." 
 
 "What did you say in the notes?" 
 
 "I told you last night." 
 
 "Oh— ah— yes! Dear, would you like One turn in the 
 garden?" 
 
 Margaret took his arm. The beautiful weather 
 soothed her. But the wheels of Evie's wedding were still 
 at work, tossing the guests outwards as deftly as they 
 had drawn them in, and she could not be with him 
 long. It had been arranged that they should motor to 
 Shrewsbury, whence he would go north, and she back 
 to London with the Warringtons. For a fraction of 
 time she was happy. Then her brain recommenced. 
 
 "I am afraid there has beea gossiping of some kind 
 at the George. Helen would not have left unless she 
 
248 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 had heard something. I mismanaged -that. It is 
 wretched. I ought to have parted her from that woman 
 at once." 
 
 "Margaret!" he exclaimed, loosing her arm impres- 
 sively. 
 
 "Yes-yes, Henry?" 
 
 "I am far from a saint— in fact, the reverse— but you 
 have taken me, tor better or worse. Bygones must be 
 bygones. You have promised to forgive me. Margaret, 
 a promise is a promise. Never mention that woman 
 again." 
 
 "Except for some practical reason— never." 
 
 "Practical! You practical!" 
 
 "Yes, I'm practical," she murmured, stooping over 
 the mowing-machine and playing with the grass which 
 trickled through her fingers like sand. 
 
 He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy. 
 Not for the first time, he was threatened with black- 
 mail. He was rich and supposed to be moral; the Basts 
 knew that he was not, atid might find it profitable to 
 hint as much. 
 
 "At all events, you mustn't worry," he said. "This is a 
 man's business." He thought intently. "On no account 
 mention it to anybody." 
 
 Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was 
 really paving the way for a lie. If necessary he would 
 ^eny that he had ever known Mrs. Bast, and prosecute 
 her for libel. Perhaps he never had known her. Here was 
 Margaret, who behaved as if he had not. There the 
 house. Round them were half a dozen gardeners, clear- 
 ing up after his daughter's wedding. All was so solid 
 and spruce that the past flew up out of sight like a 
 spring-blind, leaving only the last five minutes unrolled. 
 
 Glancing at these, he saw that the car would be 
 round during the next five, and plunged into action. 
 Gongs were tapped, orders issued, Margaret was sent 
 to dress, and the housemaid to sweep up the long 
 trickle of grass that she had left across the hall. As is 
 Man to the Universe, so was the mind of Mr. Wilcox to 
 
Howards End 249 
 
 the minds of some men— a concentrated light upon a 
 tiny spot> a little Ten Minutes moving self-contained 
 through its appointed years. No Pagan he, who lives for 
 the Now, and may be wiser than all philosophers. He 
 lived for the five minutes that have past, and the five 
 to come; he had the business mind. 
 
 How did he stand now, as his motor slipped out of 
 Oniton and breasted the great round hills? Margaret 
 had heard a certain rumour, but was all right. She had 
 forgiven him, God bless her> and he felt the manlier 
 for it. Charles and Evie had not heard it, and never 
 must hear. No more must Paul. Over his children he felt 
 great tenderness, which he did not try to track to a 
 cause: Mrs. Wilcox was too tar back in his life. He did 
 not connect her with the sudden aching love that he 
 felt for Evie. Pooi little Evie! he trusted that Cahill 
 would make her a decent husband. 
 
 And Margaret? How did she stand? 
 
 She had several minor worries. Clearly her sister had 
 heard something. She dreaded meeting her in town. 
 And she was anxious about Leonard, for whom they 
 certainly were responsible. Nor ought Mrs. Bast to 
 starve. But the main situation had not altered. She still 
 loved Henry. His actions, not his disposition, had dis- 
 appointed her, and she could bear that. And she loved 
 her future home. Standing up in the car, just where she 
 had leapt from it two days before, she gazed back with 
 deep emotion upon Oniton. Besides the Grange and 
 the castle keep, she could now pick out the church 
 and the black-and-white gables of the George. There was 
 the bridge, and the river nibbling its green peninsula. 
 She could even see the bathing-shed, but while she was 
 looking for Charles's new springboard, the forehead of 
 the hill rose up and hid the whole scene. 
 
 She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows 
 down into England, day after day the sun retreats into 
 the Welsh mountains, and the tower chimes: "See the 
 Conquering Hero." But the Wilcoxes have no part in 
 (■he place, nor in any place. It is not their names that 
 
E. M. FORSTER 
 
 recur in the parish register. It is not their ghosts that 
 sigh among the alders at evening. They have swept into 
 the valley and swept out of it, leaving a little dust and 
 a little money behind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 Tibby was now approaching his last year at Oxford. He 
 had moved out of college, and was contemplating the 
 Universe, or such portions of it as concerned him, from 
 his comfortable lodgings in Long Wall. He was not con- 
 cerned with much. When a young man is untroubled by 
 passions and sincerely indifferent to public opinion, his 
 outlook is necessarily limited. Tibby neither wished to 
 strengthen the position of the rich nor to improve that 
 of the poor, and so was well content to watch the elms 
 nodding behind the mildly embattled parapets of 
 Magdalen. There are worse lives. Though selfish, he was 
 never cruel; though affected in manner, he never posed. 
 Like Margaret, he disdained the heroic equipment, and 
 it was only after many visits that men discovered 
 Schlegel to possess a character and a brain. He had 
 done well in Mods, much to the surprise of those who 
 attended lectures and took proper exercise, and was 
 now glancing disdainfully at Chinese in case he should 
 some day consent to qualify as a Student Interpreter. 
 To him thus employed Helen entered. A telegram had 
 preceded her. 
 
 He noticed, in a distant way, that his sister had 
 altered. As a rule he found her too pronounced, and 
 had never come across this look of appeal, pathetic yet 
 dignified— the look of a sailor who has lost everything 
 at sea. 
 
 "I have come from Oniton," she began. "There has 
 been a great deal of trouble there." 
 
 "Who's for lunch?" said Tibby, picking up the claret 
 
Howards End 251 
 
 which was warming in the hearth. Helen sat down sub- 
 missively at the table. "Why such an early start?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Sunrise or somethimg— when I could get away." 
 
 "So I surmise. Why?" 
 
 "I don't know what's to be done, Tibby. I am very 
 much upset at a piece of news that concerns Meg, and 
 do not want to face her, and I am not going back to 
 Wickham Place. I stopped here to tell you this." 
 
 The landlady came in with the cutlets. Tibby put a 
 marker in the leaves of his Chinese grammar and helped 
 them. Oxford— the Oxford of the vacation— dreamed 
 and rustled outside, and indoors the little fire was 
 coated with grey where the sunshine touched it. Helen 
 continued her odd story. 
 
 "Give Meg my love and say that I want to be alone. 
 I mean to go to Munich or else Bonn." 
 
 "Such a message is easily given," said her brother. 
 
 "As regards Wickham Place and my share of the fur- 
 niture, you and she are to do exactly as you like. My 
 own feeling is that everything may just as well be sold. 
 What does one want with dusty economic books, which 
 have made the world no better, or with mother's hide- 
 ous chiffoniers? I have also another commission for 
 you. I want you to deliver a letter." She got up. "I 
 haven't written it yet. Why shouldn't I post it, though?" 
 She sat down again. "My head is rather wretched. I 
 hope that none of your friends are likely to come in." 
 
 Tibby locked the door. His friends often found it in 
 this condition. Then he asked whether anything had 
 gone wrong at Evie's wedding. 
 
 "Not there," said Helen, and burst into tears. 
 
 He had known her hysterical— it was one of her as- 
 pects with which he had no concern — and yet these 
 tears touched him as something unusual. They were 
 nearer the things that did concern him, such as music. 
 He laid down his knife and looked at her curiously. 
 Then, as she continued to sob, he went on with his 
 lunch. 
 
252 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 The time came for the second course, and she was 
 still crying. Apple Charlotte was to follow, which spoils 
 by waiting. "Do you mind Mrs. Martlett coming in?" 
 he asked, "or shall I take it from her at the door?" 
 
 "Could I bathe my eyes, Tibby?" 
 
 He took her to his bedroom, and introduced the pud- 
 ding in her absence. Having helped himself, he put it 
 down to warm in the hearth. His hand stretched to- 
 wards the grammar, and soon he was turning over the 
 pages, raising his eyebrows scornfully, perhaps at hu- 
 man nature, perhaps at Chinese. To him thus employed 
 Helen returned. She had pulled herself together, but 
 the grave appeal had not vanished from her eyes. 
 
 "Now for the explanation," she said. "\yhy didn't I 
 begin with it? I have found out something abbut Mr. 
 Wilcox. He has behaved very wrongly indeed, and 
 ruined two people's lives. It all came on me very sud- 
 denly last night; I am very much upset, and I do not 
 know what to do. Mrs. Bast—" 
 
 "Oh, those people!" 
 
 Helen seemed silenced. 
 
 "Shall I lock the door again?"' 
 
 "No, thanks, Tibbikins. You're being very good to 
 me. I want to tell you the story before I go abroad. You 
 must do exactly what you like— treat it as part of the 
 furniture. Meg cannot have heard it yet, I think. But I 
 cannot face her and tell her that the man she is going 
 to marry has misconducted himself. I don't even know 
 whether she ought to be told. Knowing as she does that 
 I dislike him, she will suspect me, and think that I want 
 to ruin her match. I simply don't know what to make 
 of such a thing. I trust your judgment. What would 
 you do?" 
 
 "I gather he has had a mistress," said Tibby. 
 
 Helen flushed with shame and anger. "And ruined 
 two people's lives. And goes about saying that personal 
 actions count for nothing, and there always will be rich 
 and poor. He met her when he was trying to get rich 
 out in Cyprus — I don't wish to make him worse than 
 
Howards End 253 
 
 he is, and no doubt she was ready enough to meet him. 
 But there it is. They met. He goes his way and she 
 goes hers. What do you suppose is the end of such 
 women?" 
 
 He conceded that it was a bad business. 
 
 "They end in two ways: Either they sink till the 
 lunatic asylums and the workhouses are full of them, 
 and cause Mr. Wilcox to write letters to the papers com- 
 plaining of our national degeneracy, or else they entrap 
 a boy into marriage before it is too late. She— I can't 
 blame her. 
 
 "But this isn't all," she continued after a long pause, 
 during which the landlady served them with coflFee. "I 
 come now to the business that took us to Oniton. 
 We went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox's advice, the 
 man throws up a secure situation and takes an insecure 
 one, from which he is dismissed. There are Certain ex- 
 cuses, but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to blame, as Meg 
 herself admitted. It is only common justice that he 
 should employ the man himself. But he meets the 
 woman, and, like the cur that he is, he refuses, and tries 
 to get rid of them. He makes Meg write. Two notes 
 came from her late that evening — one for me, one for 
 Leonard, dismissing him with barely a reason. 1 couldn't 
 understand. Then it comes out that Mrs. Bast had 
 spoken to Mr. Wilcox on the lawn while we left her to 
 get rooms, and was still speaking about him when 
 Leonard came back to her. This Leonard knew all 
 along. He thought it natural he should be ruined twice. 
 Natural! Could you have contained yourself?" 
 
 "It is certainly a very bad business," said Tibby. 
 
 His reply seemed to calm his sister. "I was afraid that 
 I saw it out of proportion. But you are right outside it. 
 and you must know. In a day or two— or perhaps a 
 week— take whatever steps you think fit. I leave it in 
 your hands." 
 
 She concluded her charge. 
 
 "The facts as they touch Meg are all before you," she 
 added; and Tibby sighed and felt it rather hard that, 
 
154 ^- **• ^ORSTER 
 
 because of his open mind, he should be empanelled to 
 serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human 
 beings, for which one must blame him, but he had had 
 rather too much of them at Wickham Place. Just as 
 some people cease to attend when books are men- 
 tioned, so Tibby's attention wandered when "personal 
 relations" came under discussion. Ought Margaret to 
 know what Helen knew the Basts to know? Similar 
 questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford 
 he had learned to say that the importance of human 
 beings has been vastly overrated by specialists. The epi- 
 gram, with its faint whiff of the eighties, meant noth- 
 ing. But he might have let it ofiF now if his sister had 
 not been ceaselessly beautiful. 
 
 "You see, Helen— have a cigarette— I don't see what 
 I'm to do." 
 
 "Then there's nothing to be done. I dare say you are 
 tight. Let them marry. There remains the question of 
 compensation." 
 
 "Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had yOu 
 not better consult an expert?" 
 
 "This part is in confidence," said Helen. "It has 
 nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her. 
 The compensation— I do not see who is to pay it if 
 I don't, and I have already decided on the minimum 
 sum. As soon as possible I am placing it to your ac- 
 count, and when I am in Germany you will pay it over 
 for me. I shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if 
 you do this." I 
 
 "What is the sum?" 
 
 "Five thousand." 
 
 "Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson. 
 
 "Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through 
 life having done one thing— to have raised one person 
 from the abyss: not these puny gifts of shillings and 
 blankets— making the grey more grey. No doubt people 
 will think me extraordinary." 
 
 "I don't care a damn what people think!" cried he. 
 
Howards End 255 
 
 heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it's half 
 what you have." 
 
 "Not nearly half." She spread out her hands over her 
 soiled skirt. "I have far too much, and we settled at 
 Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is neces- 
 sary to set a man on his feet. What I give wilf bring in 
 a hundred and fifty between two. It isn't enough." 
 
 He could not recover. He was not angry or even 
 shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty 
 to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks 
 people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations 
 would not work, and he could only blurt out that the 
 five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of 
 bother for him personally. 
 
 "I didn't expect you to understand me." 
 
 "I? I understand nobody." 
 
 "But you'll do it?" 
 
 "Apparently." 
 
 "I leave you two commissions, then. The first con- 
 cerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion. 
 The second concerns the money, and is to be men- 
 tioned to no one, and carried out literally. You will 
 send a hundred pounds on account tomorrow." 
 
 He walked with her to the station, passing through 
 those streets whose serried beauty never bewildered 
 him and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised 
 domes and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the 
 ganglion of vulgarity round Carfax showed how evanes- 
 cent was the phantom, how faint its claim to represent 
 England. Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed 
 nothing: the Basts were in her brain, and she retold^ 
 the crisis in a meditative way, which might have made 
 other men curious. She was seeing whether it would 
 hold. He asked her once why she had taken the Basts 
 right into the heart of Evie's wedding. She stopped like 
 a frightened animal and said: "Does that seem to you 
 so odd?" Her eyes, the hand laid on the mouth, quite 
 haunted him, until they were absorbed into the figure 
 
256 E. M. FORSTER- 
 
 of St. Mary the Virgin, before whom he paused for a 
 moment on the walk home. 
 
 It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his 
 duties. Margaret summoned him the next day. She was 
 terrified at Helen's flight, and he had to say that she 
 had called in at Oxford. Then she said: "Did she seem 
 worried at any rumour about Henry?" He answered 
 "Yes." "I knew it was that!" she exclaimed. "I'll write 
 to her." Tibby was relieved. 
 
 He then sent the cheque to the address that Helen 
 gave him, and stated that later on he was instructed to 
 forward five thousand pounds. An answer came back, 
 very civil and quiet in tone — such an answer as Tibby 
 himself would have given. The cheque was returned, 
 the legacy refused, the writer being in no need of 
 money. Tibby forwarded this to Helen, adding in the 
 fulness of his heart that Leonard Bast seemed some- 
 what a monumental person after all. Helen's reply was 
 frantic. He was to take no notice. He was to go down 
 at once and say that she commanded acceptance. He 
 went. A scurf of books and china ornaments awaited 
 him. The Basts had just been evicted for not paying 
 theii rent, and had wandered no one knew . whither. 
 Helen had begun bungling with her money by this 
 time, and had even sold out her shares in the Notting- 
 ham and Derby Railway. For some weeks she did noth- 
 ing. Then she remvested, and, owing to. the good ad- 
 vice of her stockbrokers, became rather richer than she 
 had been before. 
 
Howards End 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as vari- 
 ously as the generations of men, some with a tragic 
 roar, some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of 
 ghosts, while from others— and thus was the death of 
 Wickham Place— the spirit slips before the body per- 
 ishes. It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating the 
 girls more than they knew, and causing either to accost 
 unfamiliar regions. By September it was a corpse, void 
 of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the memories of 
 thirty years of happiness. Through its round-topped 
 doorway passed furniture, and pictures, and books, 
 until the last room was gutted and the last van had 
 rumbled away. It stood for a week or two longer, open- 
 eyed, as if astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell. 
 Navvies came, and spilt it back iiito the grey. With their 
 muscles and their beery good temper, they were not 
 the worst of undertakers for a house which had always 
 been human, and had not mistaken culture for an end. 
 
 The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down 
 into Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox having most kindly 
 offered Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce had 
 died abroad — an unsatisfactory affair— and as there 
 seemed little guarantee that the rent would be paid 
 regularly, he cancelled the agreement, and resumed pos- 
 session himself. Until he relet the house, the Schlegels 
 were welcome to stack their furniture in the garage and 
 lower rooms. Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted 
 the offer gladly; it saved him from coming to any de- 
 cision about the future. The plate and the more valu- 
 able pictures found a safer home in London, but the 
 bulk of the thiiigs went country-ways, and were en- 
 trusted to the guardianship of Miss Avery. 
 
 Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine weie 
 
258 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 mairied. They have weathered the storm, and 'may 
 reasonably expect peace. To have no illusions and yet 
 to love— what stronger surety can a woman find? She 
 had seen her husband's past as well as his heart. She 
 knew her own heart with a thoroughness that common- 
 place people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs. 
 Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is supersti- 
 tious to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They 
 were married quietly — really quietly, for as the day ap- 
 proached she refused to go through another Oniton. 
 Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who was out of 
 health, presided over a few colourless refreshments. The 
 Wilcoxes were -represented by Charles, who witnessed 
 the marriage settlement, and by Mr. Cahill. Paul did 
 send a cablegram. In a few minutes, and without the 
 aid of music, the clergyman made them man and wife, 
 and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts off mar- 
 ried couples from the world. She, a monogamist, re- 
 gretted the cessation of some of life's innocent odours; 
 he, whose instincts were polygamous, felt morally 
 braced by the change, and less liable to the temptations 
 that had assailed him in the past. 
 
 They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry 
 knew of a reliable hotel there, and Margaret hoped for 
 a meeting with her sister. In this she was disappointed. 
 As they came south, Helen retreated over the Brenner, 
 and wrote an unsatisfactory postcard from the shores of 
 the Lake of Garda, saying that her plans were uncertain 
 and had better be ignored. Evidently she disliked meet- 
 ing Henry. Two months are surely enough to accustom 
 an outsider to a situation which a wife has accepted in 
 two days, and Margaret had again to regret her sister's 
 lack of self-control. In a long letter she pointed out the 
 need of charity in sexual matters: so little is known 
 about them; it is hard enough for those who are person- 
 ally ^touched to judge; then how futile must be the ver- 
 dict of Society. "I don't say there is no standard, for 
 that would destroy morality; only that there can be no 
 
Howards End 259 
 
 standard until our impulses are classified and better 
 understood." Helen thanked her for her kind letter- 
 rather a curious reply. She moved south again, and 
 spoke of wintering in Naples. 
 
 Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. 
 Helen left him time to grow skin over his wound. There 
 were still moments when it pained him. Had he only 
 known that Margaret was awaiting him— Margaret, so 
 lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive— he would 
 have kept himself worthier of her. Incapable of group- 
 ing the past, he confused the episode of Jacky with an- 
 other episode that had taken place in the days of his 
 bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for 
 which he was heartily sorry, -and he could not see that 
 those oats are of a darker stock which are rooted in an- 
 other's dishonour. Unchastity and infidelity were as 
 confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only moral 
 teacher. Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter into his 
 calculations at all, tor poor old Ruth had never found 
 him out. 
 
 His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her 
 cleverness gave him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked to 
 see her reading poetry or something about social ques- 
 tions; it distinguished her from the wives of other men. 
 He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and 
 was ready to do what he wished. Then they would 
 argue so jollily, and once or twice she had him in quite 
 a tight comer, but as soon as he grew really serious, she 
 "gave in. Man is for war, woman for the recreation of 
 the warrior, but he does not dislike it if she makes a 
 show of fight. She cannot win in a real battle, having no 
 muscles, only nerves. Nerves make her jump out of 
 a moving motor-car, or refuse to be married fashionably. 
 The wanior may well allow her to triumph on such oc- 
 casions; they move not the imperishable plinth of 
 things that touch his peace. 
 
 Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the 1 
 honeymoon. He told her— casually, as was his habit— 
 
26o E. M. FORSTER 
 
 that Oniton Grange was let. She showed her annoy- 
 ance, and asked rather crossly why she had not been 
 consulted. 
 
 "I didn't want to bother you," he replied. "Besides, 
 "I have only heard for certain this morning." 
 
 "Where are we to live?" said Margaret, trying to 
 laugh. "I loved the place extraordinarily. Don't you be- 
 lieve in having a permanent home, Henry?" 
 
 He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is 
 home life that distinguishes us from the foreigner. But 
 he did not believe in a damp home. 
 
 "This is news. I never heard till this minute that 
 Oniton was damp." 
 
 "My dear girl!" — he flung out his hand— "have you 
 eyes? have you a skin? How could it be anything but 
 damp in such a situation? In the first place, the Grange 
 is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have 
 .been; then there's that detestable little river, steaming 
 all night like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; look up 
 under the eaves. Ask Sir James or anyone. Those Shrop- 
 shire valleys are notorious. The only possible place 
 for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my part, 
 I think thfe country is too far from London, and the 
 scenery nothing special." 
 
 Margaret could not resist saying: "Why did you go 
 there, then?" 
 
 "I— because— " He drew his head back and grew 
 rather angry. "Why have we come to the Tyrol, if it 
 comes to that? One might go on asking such questions, 
 indefinitely." — 
 
 One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausi- 
 ble answer. Out it came, and he believed it as soon as 
 it was spoken. 
 
 "The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. 
 Dpn't let this go any further." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "I shouldn't like her to know that she nearly let me 
 in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did I sign the 
 agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girli She 
 
Howards End 261 
 
 was so keen on it all, and wouldn't even wait to make 
 proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get 
 snapped up — just like all of your sex. Well, no harm's 
 done. She has had her country wedding, and I've got 
 rid of my house to some fellows who are starring a 
 preparatory school." 
 
 "Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy 
 living somewhere." 
 
 "I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?" 
 
 Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her 
 from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of 
 this nomadic civilization which is altering human na- 
 ture so profoundly, and throw^ upon personal relations 
 a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under 
 cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help 
 from the earth. Trees arid meadows and mountains will 
 only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they 
 once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love, 
 alone. May Love be equal to the task! 
 
 "It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly Octo- 
 ber. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and 
 look out for something in the spring." 
 
 "If possible, something permanent. I can't be as 
 young as I was, for these alterations don't suit me." 
 
 "But, my dear, which would you rather have— altera- 
 tions or rheumatism?" 
 
 "I see your point," said Margaret, getting up. "It 
 Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be in- 
 habited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look 
 before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not 
 hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this 
 time. These endless moves must be bad for the furni- 
 ture, and are certainly expensive." 
 
 "What a practical little woman it is! What's it he's 
 reading? Theo — theo — ^how much?" 
 
 "Theosophy." 
 
 So Ducie Street was her first fate— a pleasant enough 
 iate. The house, being only a little larger than Wick- 
 liam Place, trained her for the immense establishment 
 
262 E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 that was promised in the spring. They were frequently 
 away, but at home hfe ran faiily regularly. In the morn- 
 ing Henry went to the business, and his sandwich— a 
 relic this of some prehistoric craving— was always cut by 
 her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for 
 lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hun- 
 gry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house 
 to look after, and the servants to humanize, and several 
 kettles of Helen's to keep on the boil. Her conscience 
 pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry 
 to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was 
 worth helping, but being Henry's wife, she preferred to 
 help someone else. As for theatres and discussion so- 
 cieties, they attracted her less and less. She began to 
 "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time 
 re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her 
 Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her mar- 
 riage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not 
 to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. 
 Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown 
 stimulants, and was passing bom words to things. It was 
 doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or 
 John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after 
 thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 She was looking at plans one day in the following 
 spring— they had finally decided to go down into 
 Sussex and build— when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as 
 she entered the room. "Charles is so ang— I mean he 
 is sure you know about it, or rather, that you don't 
 know." 
 
Howards End 263 
 
 "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. 
 "Here's a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" 
 
 Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a 
 great row that there had been at Hilton Tennis Club, 
 Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to 
 get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabit- 
 ants, had said— Charles had said— the tax-collector had 
 said— Charles had regretted not saying— and she closed 
 the description with: "But lucky you, with four courts 
 of your own at Midhurst." 
 
 "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret. 
 
 "Are those the plans? Does it matter me seeing 
 them?" 
 
 "Ot course not." 
 
 "Charles has never seen the plans." 
 
 "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor 
 — no, that's rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to 
 have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." 
 
 "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after 
 a moment's inspection. She was incapable of under- 
 standing plans or maps. 
 
 "I suppose the paper." 
 
 "And which way up is it?" 
 
 '7ust the ordinary way up. That's the sky-line, and 
 the part that smells strongest is the sky." 
 
 "Well, ask me another. Margaret — oh — what was I 
 going to say? How's Helen?" 
 
 "Quite well." 
 
 "Is she never coming back to England? Everyone 
 thinks it's awfully odd she doesn't." 
 
 "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexa- 
 tion. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen 
 is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." 
 
 "But hasn't she any address?" 
 
 "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her ad- 
 dress. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." 
 
 "No, don't bother. That's eight months she has been 
 away, surely?" 
 
264 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Exactly. She left just after Evie's wedding It would 
 be eight months." 
 
 "Just when baby was bom, then?" 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the draw- 
 ing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and 
 good looks. The Charleses were not well off, for Mr. 
 Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive 
 tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. 
 After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet an- 
 other baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they 
 would have to give up the motor. Margaret sym- 
 pathized, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imag- 
 ined that the step-mother was urging Mr. Wilcox to 
 make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, 
 and at last the particular grievance was remembered. 
 "Oh yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been 
 unpacking your packing-cases." 
 
 "Why has she done that? How Unnecessary!" 
 
 "Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to." 
 
 "I gave no such orders. Perhaps shp was airing the 
 things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire." 
 
 "It- was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. 
 "The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me 
 to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you 
 don't know." 
 
 "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. 
 "Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our 
 books?" 
 
 "Hasn't she, though! What used to be the hall's full 
 of them. Charles thought for certain you knew of it." 
 
 "I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can 
 have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about it 
 at once. Some of the books are my brother's, and are 
 quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the 
 cases." 
 
 "I say she's dotty. She was the one that never got 
 married, you know. Oh, I say, perhaps she thinks your 
 books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids are 
 
Howards End 265 
 
 taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like 
 poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie." 
 
 "I hadn't heard of that," said Margaret. A visit from 
 Dolly had its compensations. 
 
 "Didn't you know she gave Evie a present last 
 August, and Evie returned it, and then— oh, goloshes! 
 You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote." 
 
 "But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn't like 
 her to do such a heartless thing." 
 
 "But the present was so expensive." 
 
 "Why does that make any difference, Dolly?" 
 
 "Still, when it costs over five pounds— I didn't see it, 
 but it was a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond Street 
 shop. You can't very well accept that kind of thing from 
 a farm woman. Now, can you?" 
 
 'Tou accepted a present from Miss Avery when you 
 were married." 
 
 "Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff— not worth a 
 halfpenny. Evie's was quite different. You'd have tO' ask 
 anyone to the wedding who gave you a pendant like 
 that. Uncle Percy and Albert and Father and Charles 
 all said it was quite impossible, and when four men 
 agree, what is a girl to do? Evie didn't want to upset 
 the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter best, 
 and returned the pendant straight to the shop to save 
 Miss Avery trouble." 
 
 "But Miss Avery said—" 
 
 Dolly's eyes grew round. "It was a perfectly awful 
 letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman. In 
 the end she had the pendant back again from the shop 
 and threw it into the duckpond." 
 
 "Did she give any reasons?" 
 
 "We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so 
 climb into society." 
 
 "She's rather old for that," said Margaret pensively. 
 "May not she have given the present to Evie in remem- 
 brance of her mother?" 
 
 "That's a notion. Give everyone their due, eh? Well, 
 I suppose I ought to be toddling. Come along, Mr. 
 
266 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 MuflE— you want a new coat, but I don't know who'll 
 give it you, I'm sure"; and addressing her appaiel with 
 mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room. 
 
 Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew 
 about Miss Avery's rudeness. 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after 
 the house." 
 
 "But she's only a farm woman," said Dolly, and her 
 explanation proved conect. Henry only censured the 
 lower classes when it suited him. He bore with Miss 
 Avery as with Crane— because he could get good value 
 out of them. "I have patience with a man who knows 
 his job," he would say, really having patience with the 
 job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may sound, he 
 had something of the artist about him; he would pass 
 over an insult to his daughter sooner than lose a good 
 charwoman for his wife. 
 
 Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble 
 herself. Parties were evidently ruffled. With Henry's 
 permission, she wrote a pleasant note to Miss Avery, 
 asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the 
 first convenient opportunity, she went down herself, 
 intending to repack her belongings and store them 
 properly in the local warehouse: the plan had been 
 amateurish and a failure. Tibby promised to accompany 
 her, but at the last moment begged to be excused. So, 
 for the second time in her life, she entered the house 
 alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 Tlie day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of un- 
 clouded happiness that she was to have for many 
 months. Her anxiety about Helen's extraordinary ab- 
 sence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush with 
 Miss Avery— that only gave zest to the expedition. She 
 
Howards End 267 
 
 had also eluded Dolly's invitation to luncheon. Walk- 
 ing straight up from the station, she crossed the village 
 green and entered the long chestnut avenue that con- 
 nects it with the church. The church itself stood in the 
 village once. But it there attracted so many worshippers 
 that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from its foundations 
 and poised it on an inconvenient knoll three quarters 
 of a mile away. If this story is true, the chestnut ave- 
 nue must have been planted by the angels. No more 
 tempting approach could be imagined for the lukewarm 
 Christian, and if he still finds the walk too long, the 
 devil is defeated all the same, Science having built 
 Holy Trinity, a Chapel of Ease, near the Charleses', 
 and roofed it with tin. 
 
 Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to 
 watch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches 
 of the chestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes 
 on the lower branches. -Why has not England a great 
 mythology? Our folklore has never advanced beyond 
 daintiness, and the greater melodies about our coun- 
 .try-side have all issued through the pipes of Greece. 
 Deep and true as the native imagination can be, it 
 seems to h^ve failed here. It has stopped with the 
 witches and the fairies. It cannot vivify one fraction of 
 a summer field, or give names to half a dozen stars. 
 England still waits for the supreme moment of her lit- 
 erature—for the great poet who shall voice her, or, bet- 
 ter still, for the thousand little poets whose voices shall 
 pass into our common talk. 
 
 ' At the church th^ scenery changed. The chestnut 
 avenue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which 
 led into the untouched country. She followed it for 
 over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having 
 no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it 
 wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, nor 
 about the view, which nevertheless expanded. The 
 great estates that throttle the south of Hertfordshire 
 were less obtrusive here, and the appearance of the 
 land was neither aristocratic nor suburban. To define 
 
268 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not: it 
 was not snobbish. Though its contours were slight, 
 there was a touch of freedom in their sweep to which 
 Surrey will never attain, and the distant brow of the 
 Chiltems towered like a mountain. "Left to itself," was 
 Margaret's opinion, "this county would vote Liberal." 
 The comradeship, not passionate, that is our highest 
 gift as a nation, was promised by it, as by the low brick 
 farm where she called for the key. 
 
 But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most 
 finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox: 
 no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, Auntie received 
 your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little 
 place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant 
 to direct you?" Followed by: "Of course. Auntie does 
 not generally look after your place; she only does it to 
 oblige a neighbour as sometihing exceptional. It gives 
 her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time 
 there. My husband says to me sometimes: 'Where's 
 Auntie?' I say: 'Need you ask? She's at Howards End.' 
 Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon 
 you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?" 
 
 Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this ac- 
 quired her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery's niece. 
 
 "I cannot let you go on alone. Now don't. You really 
 mustn't. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I 
 must get my hat. Now"— roguishly— "Mrs. Wilcox, 
 don't you move while I'm gone." 
 
 Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best par- 
 lour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. 
 But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they 
 conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here 
 had lived an elder race, to which we look back with dis- 
 quietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was 
 really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the 
 deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their 
 deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was 
 not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrash 
 sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. 
 
Howards End 260 
 
 Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of 
 golden straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that 
 surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeHng 
 of completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, 
 one might see life steadily and see it whole, group in 
 one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, con- 
 nect—connect without bitterness until all men are 
 brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by the re- 
 turn of Miss Avery's niece, and were so tranquillizing 
 that she sufiEered the interruption gladly. 
 
 It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after 
 due explanations, they went oiit by it. The niece was 
 now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up 
 to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal 
 sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. 
 But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet 
 air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw and 
 rufiBing the tails of the ducks as they floated in families 
 over Evie's pendant. One of those delicious gales of 
 spring, in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept 
 over the land and then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the 
 thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively from the cliff of pine- 
 trees. "Georgie, pretty Georgie," and the other birds , 
 joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted 
 picture which would be finished in a few days. Celan- 
 dines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses 
 in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still 
 bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of 
 blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet 
 fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks 
 through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before 
 her and the zephyr behind. 
 
 The two women walked up the lane full of outward ~~ 
 civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was 
 to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the 
 niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they 
 reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" sev- 
 ered the air. There was no reply, and the front door was 
 locked. 
 
270 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked 
 Margaret. 
 
 "Oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." 
 
 Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room 
 window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So 
 with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of 
 these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember 
 them being there on her other visit: her impression was 
 that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried 
 the back. Here again they received no answer, and 
 could see nothing; the kitchen window vras fitted with 
 a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces oi 
 wood propped up against them, which looked omi- 
 nously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought 
 of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the 
 first cry she succeeded. 
 
 "Well, well!" replied someone inside the house. "If 
 it isn't Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" 
 
 "Have you got the "key-. Auntie?" 
 
 "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible. 
 
 "Auntie, it's Mrs. Wilcox—" 
 
 Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have 
 come together—" 
 
 "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." 
 
 The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccen- 
 tric lately," she said nervously. 
 
 "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about 
 the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But 
 after that came silence. They called again without re- 
 sponse. They walked round the house disconsolately. 
 
 "I hope Miss Ayery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. 
 
 "Well, if you'll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I 
 ought to be leaving you now. The servants need see- 
 ing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gather- 
 ing up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if 
 her departure had loosed a spring, the front door 
 opened at once. 
 
Howards End 271 
 
 Miss Avery said: "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcoxl" 
 quite pleasantly and calmly. 
 
 /'Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke 
 off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. 
 
 "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She 
 drew, the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. 
 For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was 
 fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham 
 Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table 
 drawn up near the window; ^'he bookcases filled the 
 wall opposite the fireplace, and her father's sword— 
 this is what bewildered her particularly— had been 
 drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the 
 sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. 
 
 "I'm afraid this isn't what we meant," she began. 
 "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be 
 touched. For instance, these books are my brother's. 
 We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is 
 abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after 
 things, we never expected you to do so much." 
 
 "The house has been empty long enough," said the 
 old woman. 
 
 Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn't ex- 
 plain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very 
 likely our mistake." 
 
 "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for 
 fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox's, and she would 
 not desire it to stand empty any longer." 
 
 To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox's house, the mother of Mr. 
 Charles." 
 
 "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake 
 upon mistake." 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said Margaret, sitting down in 
 one of her own chairs. "I really don't know what's to be 
 done." She could not help laughing. 
 
 The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house 
 enough." 
 
272 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "I don't know— I dare say. Well, thank you very 
 much. Miss Avery. Yes, that's all right. Dehghtful." 
 
 "There is stillthe parlour." She went through the 
 door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the 
 drawing-room and the drawirig-room furniture from 
 Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains 
 were drawn, more windows were flung open to the 
 spring. "Then through here—" Miss Avery continued 
 passing and repassing through the hall. Her voice was 
 lost, but Margaret heard her pulling iip the kitchen 
 blind. "I've not finished here yet," she announced, re- 
 turning. "There's still a deal to do. The farm lads will 
 carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need 
 to go into expense at Hilton." 
 
 "It is all a mistake," repeated Margaret, feeling that 
 she must put her foot down. "A misunderstandings 
 Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards 
 End." 
 
 "Oh, indeed. On account of his hay fever?" 
 
 "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves 
 in Sussex, and part of this furniture— my part— will go 
 down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery in- 
 tently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here 
 was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were 
 shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing 
 wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. 
 
 "You think that you won't come back to live here, 
 Mrs. Wilcox, but you will." 
 
 "That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. 
 yWe have no intention of doing so for the present. We 
 happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances 
 oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day— one 
 never knows, does one?" 
 
 Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don't 
 talk about some day. You are living here now." 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 "You are living here, and have been for the last ten 
 minutes, if you ask me." 
 
 It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of 
 
Howards End 273 
 
 disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that 
 Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into 
 the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon 
 her mother's chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an 
 old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted 
 extraordinarily well. In the central room— over the hall, 
 the room that Helen had slept in four years ago— Miss 
 Avery had placed Tibby's old bassinette. 
 
 "The nursery," she said. 
 
 Margaret turned away without speaking. 
 
 At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby 
 were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far 
 as she could make out, nothing had been broken or 
 scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they 
 took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild 
 since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and 
 grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. And 
 Evie's rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was re- 
 sponsible for Miss Avery's oddness. But Margaret sus- 
 pected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl's 
 silly letter had but loosed the irritation of years. 
 
 "It's a beautiful meadow," she remarked. It was one 
 of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, 
 hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So the 
 boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles, 
 and at the bottom there was a little green annex— a sort 
 of powder-closet for the cows. 
 
 ""Yes, the maidy's well enough," said Miss Avery, "for 
 those, that is, who don't suflEer from sneezing." And she 
 cackled maliciously. "I've seen Charlie Wilcox go out to 
 my lads in hay time— oh, they Ought to do this— they 
 mustn't do that— he'd learn them to be lads. And just 
 then the tickling took him. He has it from his father, 
 with other things. There's not one Wilcox that can 
 stand up against a field in June— I laughed fit to burst 
 while he was courting Ruth." 
 
 "My brother gets hay fever too," said Margaret. 
 
 "This house lies too much on the land for them. 
 Naturally, thev were glad enough to slip in at first. But 
 
Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see you've 
 found." 
 
 Margaret laughed. 
 
 "They keep a place going, don't they? Yes, it is just 
 that." 
 
 "They keep England going, it is my opinion." 
 
 But Miss Avery upset her by replying: "Ay, they 
 breed like rabbits. Well, well, it's a funny world. But 
 He who made it knows what He wants in it, I sup- 
 pose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn't 
 for us to repine." 
 
 "They breed and they also work," said Margaret, con- 
 scious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was 
 echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. 
 "It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like 
 my husband and his sons govern it, I thihk it'll never 
 be a bad one— never really bad." 
 
 "No, better'n nothing," said Miss Avery, and turned 
 to the wych-elm. 
 
 On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old 
 friend much more clearly than before. In the house 
 Margaret had wondered whether she quite distin- 
 guished the first wife from the second. Now she said: 
 "I never saw much of Ruth after her grandmother died, 
 but we stayed civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs. 
 Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let anyone 
 be turned away without food. Then it was never Tres- 
 passers will be prosecuted' in their land, but would 
 people please not come in. Mrs. Howard was never 
 created to mn a farm." 
 
 "Had they no men to help them?" Margaret asked. 
 
 Miss Avery replied: "Things went on until there 
 were no men." 
 
 "Until Mr. Wilcox came along," corrected Margaret, 
 anxious that her husband should receive his due. 
 
 "I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a— no 
 disrespect to you to say this, for I take it you were in- 
 tended to get Wilcox anyway, whether she got him first 
 or no." 
 
Howards End i-j^ 
 
 "Whom should she have married?" 
 
 "A soldierl" exclaimed the old woman. "Some real 
 soldier." 
 
 Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry's 
 character far more trenchant than any of her own. She 
 felt dissatisfied. 
 
 "But that's all over," she went on. "A better time is 
 coming now, though you've kept me long enough wait- 
 ing. In a couple of weeks I'll see your lights shining 
 through the hedge of an evening. Have you ordered in 
 coals?" 
 
 "We are not coming," said Margaret firmly. She re- 
 spected Miss Avery too much to humour her. "No. Not 
 coming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake. The 
 furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry, 
 but I am making other arrangements, and must ask you 
 to give me the keys." 
 
 "Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss Avery, and re- 
 signed her duties with a smile. 
 
 Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her 
 compliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the 
 station. She had intended to go to the furniture ware- 
 house and give directions for removal, but the muddle 
 had turned out more extensive than she expected, so 
 she decided to consult Henry. It was as well that she 
 did this. He was strongly against employing the local 
 man whom he had previously recommended, and ad- 
 vised her to store in London after all. 
 
 But before this could be done, an unexpected trouble 
 fell upon her. 
 
276 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley's health had 
 been bad all the winter. She had had a long series of 
 colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid of 
 them. She had scarcely promised her niece "to really take 
 my tiresome chest in hand," when she caught a chill 
 and developed acute pneumonia. Margaret and Tibby 
 went down to Swanage. Helen was telegraphed for, 
 and that spring party that after all gathered in that hos- 
 pitable house had all the pathos of fair memories. On a 
 perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain, and 
 the waves of the discreet little bay beat gentlest of tat- 
 toos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through the 
 rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness 
 of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws 
 no light upon another: the groping inquiry must be- 
 gin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalize, but we 
 know that no generality is possible about those whom 
 we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one ob- 
 livion. Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out of 
 life with odd little laughs and apologies for having 
 stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not 
 rise to the occasion, or realize the great mystery which 
 all agree must await her; it only seemed to her that she 
 was quite done up— more done up than ever before; 
 that she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and 
 that, unless something changed, she would soon feel 
 nothing. Her spare strength she devoted to plans: 
 could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions? were 
 mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried her- 
 self about Helen's absence, and also that she could be 
 the cause of Helen's return. The nurses seemed to think 
 such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an 
 average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw 
 
Howards End 277 
 
 Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea 
 of Death may contain, the process can be trivial and 
 hideous. 
 
 "Important— Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when 
 Helen comes." 
 
 "Helen won't be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has 
 telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you. 
 She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well." 
 
 "How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox—" 
 
 "Yes, dear?" 
 
 "Can he spare you?" 
 
 Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. 
 Yet again Margaret said so. 
 
 Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more 
 dignified power took hold of her and checked her on the 
 downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as 
 fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger. 
 
 "Margaret— important," it went on: "I should like 
 you to have some companion to take walks 'with. Do 
 try Miss Conder." 
 
 "1 have been a httle walk with Miss Conder." 
 
 "But she is not really interesting. If only you had 
 Helen." 
 
 "I have Tibby, Aunt Juley." 
 
 "No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real com- 
 panion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd." 
 
 "Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret. 
 
 "Not content with going abroad, why does she want 
 to go back there at once?" 
 
 "No doubt she will change her mind when she sees 
 us. She has not the least balance." 
 
 That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Mar- 
 garet's voice trembled as she made it. By now she wa-^ 
 deeply pained at her sister's behaviour. It may be m. 
 balanced to fly out of England, but to stop away eight 
 months argues that the heart is awry as well as the head. 
 A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more 
 human calls; after a ghmpse at her aunt, she would 
 retire into her nebulous life behind some poste restante. 
 
278 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and 
 infrequent; she had no wants and no curiosity. And it 
 was all put down to poor Henry's account! Henry, long 
 pardoned by his wife, was still too infamous to be 
 greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid, and, to her 
 alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth 
 of morbidity back in Helen's life for nearly four years. 
 The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage of 
 the Basts; the explosion of grief up on the Downs— all 
 connected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips had 
 kissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs. 
 Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again. Foolishly: 
 the real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wil- 
 coxes had eaten into her life until she was scarcely sane. 
 At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was 
 there for her as an old woman? 
 
 The more Margaret thought about it, the more 
 alarmed she became. For many months she had put the 
 subject away, but it was too big to be slighted now. 
 There was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen's 
 actions to be governed by a tiny mishap such as may 
 happen to any young man or woman? Can human na- 
 ture be constructed on lines so insignificant? The blun- 
 dering little encounter at Howards End was vital. It 
 propagated itself where graver intercourse lay barren; 
 it was stronger than sisterly intimacy, stronger than 
 reason or books. In one of her moods Helen had con- 
 fessed that she still "enjoyed" it in a certain sense. Paul 
 had faded, but the magic of his caress endured. And 
 where there is enjoymeirt of the past there may also be 
 reaction— propagation at both ends. 
 
 Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be 
 such seed-beds, and we without power to choose the 
 seed. But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on 
 pilfering the earth, and heedless of the growths Within 
 himself. He cannot be bored about psychology. 11° 
 leaves it to the specialist, which is as if he should leav«. 
 his dinner to be eaten by a steam-engine. He cannot bf 
 bothered to digest his own soul. Margaret and Heler 
 
Howards End 279 
 
 have been more patient, and it is suggested that Mar- 
 garet has succeeded— so far as success is yet possible. 
 She does understand herself, she has some rudimentary 
 control over her own growth. Whether Helen has suc- 
 ceeded, one cannot say. 
 
 The day that Mrs. Munt rallied, Helen's letter arrived. 
 She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London 
 herself on the morrow. It was a disquieting letter, though 
 the opening was affectionate and sane. 
 
 Dearest Meg, 
 
 Give Helen's love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that 
 I love, and have loved, her ever since I can remember. I 
 shall be in London Thursday. 
 
 My address will be care of the bankers. I have not yet 
 settled on a hotel, so write or wire to me there and gfve 
 me detailed news. If Aunt Juley is much better, or if, 
 for a terrible reason, it would be no good my coming 
 down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not 
 come. I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am living 
 abroad at present, and want to get back as quickly as 
 possible. Will you please tell me where our furniture is. 
 I should like to take out one or two books; the rest are 
 for you. 
 
 Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather 
 a tiresome letter, but all letters are from your loving 
 
 Helen 
 
 It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to 
 tell a lie. If she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in danger, 
 her sister would come. Unhealthiness is contagious. We 
 cannot be in contact with those who are in a morbid 
 state without ourselves deteriorating. To "act for the 
 best" might do Helen good, but would do herself harm, 
 and, at the risk of disaster, she kept her colours flying a 
 little longer. She replied that their aunt was much better, 
 and awaited developments. 
 
 Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he 
 was a pleasanter companion than before. Oxford had 
 done much tor him. He had lost his peevishness, and 
 
28o E. M. rORSTER 
 
 could hide his indifference to people and his interest 
 in food. But. he had not grown more human. The years 
 between eighteen and twenty-two, so magical for most, 
 were leading him gently from boyhood to middle age. 
 He had never known young-manliness, that quality 
 which warms the heart till death, and gives Mr. Wilcox 
 an imperishable charm. He was frigid, through no fault 
 of his own, and without cruelty. He thought Helen 
 wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was 
 for him what a scene behind footlights is for most peo- 
 ple. He had only one suggestion to make, and that was 
 characteristic. 
 
 "Why don't you tell Mr. Wilcox?" 
 
 "About Helen?" 
 
 "Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing." 
 
 "He would do all he could, but—" 
 
 "Oh, you know best. But he is practical." 
 
 It was the student's belief in experts. Margaret 
 demurred for one or two reasons. Presently Helen's an- 
 swer came. She sent a telegram requesting the address 
 of the furniture, as she would now return at once. Mar- 
 garet replied: "Certainly not; meet me at the bankers 
 at four." She and Tibby went up to London. Helen was 
 not at the bankers, and they were refused her address. 
 Helen had passed into chaos. 
 
 Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all 
 that she had left, and never had he seemed more un- 
 substantial. 
 
 "Tibby love, what next?" 
 
 He replied: "It is extraordinary." 
 
 "Dear, your judgment's often clearer than mine. Have 
 you any notion what's at the back?" 
 
 "None, unless it's something mental." 
 
 "Oh-that!" said Margaret. "Quite impossible." But 
 the suggestion had been uttered, and in a few minutes 
 she took it up herself. Nothing else explained. And Lon- 
 don agreed with Tibby. The mask tell off the city, and 
 she saw it for what it really is— a caricature of infinity. 
 
Howards End 281 
 
 The familiar barriers, the streets along which she moved, 
 the houses between which she had made her httle jour- 
 neys for so many years, became neghgible suddenly. 
 Helen seemed one with grimy trees and the traffic and 
 the slowly flowing slabs of mud. She had accomplished 
 a hideous act of renunciation and returned to the One. 
 Margaret's own faith held firm. She knew the human 
 soul will be merged, if it be merged at all, with the stars 
 and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister had been going 
 amiss for many years. It was symbolic the catastrophe 
 should come now, on a London afternoon, while rain 
 fell slowly. 
 
 Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He 
 might know of some paths in the chaos that were hid- 
 den from them, and she determined to take Tibby's 
 advice and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must 
 call at his office. He could not well make it worse. She 
 went for a few moments into St.' Paul's, whose dome 
 stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the 
 gospel of form. But within, St. Paul's is as its surround- 
 ings—echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, invisible 
 mosaics, wet footmarks crossing and recrossing the floor. 
 Si monumentum requiris, circumspice: it points us back 
 to London. There was no hope of Helen here. 
 
 Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had ex- 
 pected. He was overjoyed to see her back from Swanage, 
 and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. When 
 ,they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and 
 the Schlegels generally, and declared that it was "just 
 like Helen" to lead her relatives a dance. 
 
 "That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But 
 why should it be just like Helen? Why should she be 
 allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?" 
 
 "Don't ask me. I'm a plain man of business. I live and 
 let live. My advice to you both is, don't worry. Margaret, 
 you've got black marks again under your eyes. You know 
 that's strictly forbidden. First your aunt— then your 
 sister. No, we aren't going to have it. Are we, Theobald?" 
 
282 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 He rang the bell. "I'll give you some tea, and then you 
 go straight to Ducie Street. I can't have my girl looking 
 as old as her husband." 
 
 "All the same, you have not quite seen our point," 
 said Tibby. 
 
 Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted: "I 
 don't suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing 
 at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flick- 
 ered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her 
 brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. 
 
 "Margaret's point is this," he said. "Our sister may 
 be mad." 
 
 Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked 
 round. 
 
 "Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could 
 you help us at all? We are again in trouble." 
 
 "I'm afraid I cannot. WTiat are the facts? We are all 
 mad more or less, you know, in these days." 
 
 "The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at 
 times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has 
 been in England for three days and will not see us. She 
 has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She 
 refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters 
 colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most 
 striking." 
 
 "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked 
 Henry,. 
 
 "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. 
 
 "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" 
 
 A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You 
 know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," 
 she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, 
 surely." 
 
 "Oh yes; she and I have always bit it off together." 
 
 "No, Henry— can't you see?— I don't mean that." 
 
 She recovered herself, but not before Charles had 
 observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the 
 scene. 
 
 "I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the 
 
Howards End 283 
 
 past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long run. 
 She behaved oddly because she cared for someone, or 
 wanted to help them. There's no possible excuse for 
 her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am 
 sure that she is not well. 'Mad' is too terrible a word, 
 but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn't 
 discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well — 
 trouble you about her, I mean." 
 
 Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him 
 something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he 
 could not realize that we sink to it by slow gradations. 
 The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one 
 could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was 
 seized, he had promised to take her down into Hert- 
 fordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home 
 instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he 
 sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning 
 as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. 
 
 "You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That's the 
 problem, isn't it? She has got to see a doctor." 
 
 "For all I know, she has seen one already." 
 
 "Yes, yes; don't interrupt." He rose to his feet and 
 thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, 
 and they saw instead the man who had carved money 
 out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the 
 natives for a few bottles of gin. "I've got it," he said at 
 last. "It's perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We'll send her 
 down to Howards End." 
 
 "How will you do that?" 
 
 "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them 
 herself. Then you can meet her there." 
 
 "But, Henry, that's just what she won't let me do. 
 It's part of her— whatever it is— never to see me." 
 
 "Of course you won't tell her you're going. When she 
 is there, looking at the cases, you'll just stroll in. If noth- 
 ing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there'll 
 be the motor round the corner, and we can run her up 
 to a specialist in no time." 
 
 Margaret shook her head. "It's quite impossible." 
 
2&i| £. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "It doesn't seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is 
 surely a very tippy plan." 
 
 "It is impossible, because—" She looked at her hus- 
 band sadly. "It's not the particular language that Helen 
 and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splen- 
 didly for other people, whom I don't blame." 
 
 "But Helen doesn't talk," said Tibby. "That's our 
 whole difiBculty. She won't talk your particular lan- 
 guage, and on that account you think she's ill." 
 
 "No, Henry; it's sweet of you, but I couldn't." 
 
 'I see," he saidi_^"you have scruples." 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "And sooner than go against them, you would have 
 your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swan- 
 age by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are 
 all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I 
 hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a 
 question of madness—" 
 
 "I deny it's madness." 
 
 "You said just now—" 
 
 "It's madness when I say it, but not when you say it." 
 
 Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" 
 he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. 
 Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to 
 help you or not?" 
 '■ "Not in that way." 
 
 "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. 
 Do-" 
 
 Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we 
 may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. 
 
 "Why, Charles?" 
 
 Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, 
 over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed be- 
 tween them. 
 
 "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said 
 crossly. "We don't want any more mess." 
 
 "Who's 'we'?" asked his father. "My boy, pray, who's 
 'we'?" 
 
Howards End 285 
 
 "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I ap- 
 pear always to be intruding." 
 
 By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned 
 her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He 
 was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory 
 conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, fly- 
 ing hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was 
 ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt 
 her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She 
 wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband's dictation; 
 she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could 
 be seen on Monday next at 3 p.m., when a charwoman 
 would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the 
 more plausible for that. Helen would think she was of- 
 fended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to 
 lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the 
 garden. 
 
 After fhey had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I 
 can't have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret's too 
 sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her." 
 
 Charles jnade no answer. 
 
 "Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this after- 
 noon?" 
 
 "No, Pater; but you may be taking on a bigger busi- 
 ness than you reckon." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Don't ask me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that 
 are her true children have only one mood; they are all 
 full of the rising and dropping of winds, and th6 whis- 
 tling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green em- 
 broidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven 
 broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures. 
 
286 E. M. rORSTER 
 
 seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow. 
 The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, 
 and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the 
 scales of a single balance. Time might never have 
 moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his 
 schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he 
 saw her through a veil of tears. 
 
 She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or 
 wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no otiier 
 standard by which to judge him. She must trust him ab- 
 solutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, 
 his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest 
 indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be 
 staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie. 
 
 They went down in the morning as arranged, and he 
 discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton. On 
 his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in the village 
 and had a few minutes' serious conversation with the 
 proprietors. What he said, Margaret did not know— per- 
 haps not the truth; but news arrived after lunch that a 
 lady had come by the London train, and had taken a 
 fly to Howards End. 
 
 "She was bound to drive," said Henry. "There will 
 be her books." 
 
 "I cannot make it out," said Margaret for the hun- 
 dredth time. 
 
 "Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off." 
 
 "Yes, M&rgaret, you know you must take plenty," said 
 Dolly. 
 
 Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her 
 eyes. Dolly stole glances at her father-in-law which he 
 did not answer. In the silence the motor came round to 
 the door. 
 
 "You're not fit for it," he said anxiously, "Let me go 
 alone. I know exactly what to do." 
 
 "Oh yes, I am fit," s>aid Margaret, uncovering her face. 
 "Only most frightfully worried. I cannot feel that Helen 
 is really alive. Her letters and telegrams seem to have 
 come from someone eke. Her voice Isn't in them. I 
 
Howards End 287 
 
 don't believe your driver really saw her at the- station. 
 I wish I'd never mentioned it. I know that Charles is 
 vexed. Yes, he is—" She seized Dolly's hand and kissed 
 it. "There, Dolly will forgive me. TTiere. Now we'll be 
 off." 
 
 Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not 
 like this breakdown. 
 
 "Don't you want to tidy yourself?" he asked. 
 
 "Have I time?" 
 
 "Yes, plenty." 
 
 She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as 
 soon as the bolt shpped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly: 
 
 "Dolly, I'm going without her." 
 
 Dolly's eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She fol- 
 lowed him on tip-toe out to the car. 
 
 "Tell her I thought it best." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see." 
 
 "Say anything you like. All right." 
 
 The car started well, and with ordmary luck would 
 have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing in 
 bhe garden, chose this moment to sit down in the mid- 
 dle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one 
 wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dplly screamed. Mar- 
 B;aret, hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and was in 
 time to jump on the footboard. She said not a single 
 word: he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, 
 md her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate 
 ivhat Helen would feel against them. She thought: "I 
 Jeserve it: I am punished for lowering my colours." And 
 ihe accepted his apologies with a calmness that as- 
 tonished him. 
 
 "I still consider you are not fit for it," he kept saying. 
 
 "Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is 
 ipreadclearly before me now." 
 - "I was meaning to act for the best." 
 
 "Just lend me your scarf, will you? This wind takes 
 me's hair so." 
 
 "Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?" 
 ."Look! My hands have stopped trembling." 
 
288 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "And have quite forgiven me? Then Usten. Her cab 
 should already have arrived at Howards End. (We're a 
 little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to send 
 it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn't 
 want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman"— he 
 pointed at Crane's back— "won't drive in, but will wait 
 a Ijttle short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have 
 you still the keys of the house?" 
 
 "Yes." - 
 
 "Well, they aren't wanted. Do you remember how 
 the house stands?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "If we don't find her in the porch, we can stroll round 
 into the garden. Our object—" 
 
 Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. 
 
 "I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our 
 main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The 
 house, as you know, is my property, so it should seem 
 quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently 
 nervous— wouldn't you say so, Margaret?" 
 
 The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions 
 about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything con- 
 genital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that was 
 /likely to alienate her from her family? 
 
 "Nothing," answered Margaret, wondering what 
 would have happened if she had added: "Though she 
 did resent my husband's immorality." 
 
 "She always was highly strung," pursued Henry, lean- 
 ing back in the car as it shot past the church. "A tend- 
 ency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing 
 serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say normal 
 — a very charming girl." 
 
 Margaret's anger and terror increased every moment. 
 How dare these men label her sister! What horrors lay 
 ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the name 
 of science! The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her 
 human rights, and it seemed to Margaret that all Schle- 
 gels were threatened with her. Were they normal? What 
 a question to ask! And it is always those who know 
 
Howards End 289 
 
 nothing about human nature, who are bored by 
 psychology and shocked by physiology, who ask it. 
 However piteous her sister's state, she knew that she 
 must be on her side. They would be mad together if 
 the world chose to consider them so. 
 
 It was now five minutes past three. The car slowed 
 down by the farm, in the yard of which Miss Avery was 
 standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had gone past. 
 She nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of 
 it at the end of the lane. The car ran silently like a beast 
 of prey. So unsuspicious was Helen that she was sitting 
 on the porch, with her back to the road. She had come. 
 Only her head and shoulders were visible. She sat frained 
 in the vine, and one of her hands played with the buds. 
 The wind ruffled her hair, the sun glorified it; she was 
 as she had always been. 
 
 Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her hus- 
 band could prevent her, she slipped out. She ran to the 
 garden gate, which was shut, passed through it, and 
 deliberately pushed it in his face. The noise alarmed 
 Helen. Margaret saw her rise with an unfamiliar move- 
 ment, and, rushing into the porch, leamt the simple 
 explanation of all their fears— her sister was with child. 
 
 "Is the truant all right?" called Henry. 
 
 She had time to whisper: "Oh, my darling—" The 
 keys of the house were in her hand. She unlocked How- 
 ards End and thrust Helen into it. "Yes, all right," she 
 said, and stood with her back to the door. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 "Margaret, you look upset!" said Henry. Mansbridge 
 had followed. Crane was at the gate, and the flyman had 
 stood up on the box. Margaret shook her head at them; 
 she could not speak any more. She remained clutching 
 the k^s, as if all their future depended on them. Henry 
 
290 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 was asking more questions. She shook her head again. 
 His words had no sense. She heard him wonder why she 
 had let Helen in. "You might have given me a knock 
 with the gate," was another of his remarks. Presently 
 she heard herself speaking. She, or someone for her, 
 said: "Go away." Henry came nearer. He repeated: "Mar- 
 garet, you look upset again. My dear, give me the keys. 
 What are you doing with Helen?" 
 
 "Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all." 
 
 "Manage what?" 
 
 He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might 
 have obeyed if it had not been for the doctor. 
 
 "Stop that at least," she said piteously; the doctor had 
 turned back, and was questioning the driver of Helen's 
 cab. A new feeling came over her; she was fighting for 
 women against men. She did not care about rights, but 
 if men came into Howards End, it should be over her 
 ' body. 
 
 "Come, this is an odd beginning," said her husband. 
 
 The doctor came forward now, and whispered two 
 words to Mr. Wilcox— the scandal was out. Sincerely 
 horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. 
 
 "I cannot help it," said Margaret. "Do wait. It's not 
 my fault. Please all four of you to go away now." 
 
 Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. 
 
 "We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox," said 
 the young doctor. "Could you go in and persuade your 
 sister to come out?" 
 
 "On what grounds?" said Margaret, suddenly looking 
 him straight in the eyes. 
 
 Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured 
 something about a nervous breakdown. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You 
 are not qualified to attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge. If 
 we require your services, we will let you know." 
 
 "I can diagnose the case more bluntly' if you wish," 
 he retorted. 
 
 'Tou could, but you have not. You are, therefore, 
 not qualified to attend mv sister." 
 
Howards End 291 
 
 "Come, come, Margaret!" said Henry, never raising 
 his eyes. "This is a terrible business, an appalling bjisi- 
 ness. It's doctor's orders. Open the door." 
 
 "Forgive me, but I will not." 
 
 "I don't agree." 
 
 Margaret was silent. 
 
 "This business is as broad as it's long," contributed 
 the doctor. "We had better all work together. You need 
 us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you." 
 
 "Quite so," said Henry. 
 
 "I do not need you in the least," said Margaret. 
 
 The two men looked at each other anxiously. 
 
 "No more does my sister, who is still many weeks 
 from her confinement." 
 
 "Margaret, Margaret!" 
 
 "Well, Henry, send your doctor avray. What possible 
 use is he now?" 
 
 Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a 
 vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the 
 doctor. He himself might need support, for there was 
 trouble ahead. 
 
 "It all tums on affection now," said Margaret. "Af- 
 fection. Don't you see?" Resuming her usual methods, 
 she wrote the word on the house with her finger. "Surely 
 you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much. Mr. 
 Mansbridge. doesn't know her. That's all. And affection, 
 when reciprocated, gives rights. Put that down in your 
 note-book, Mr. Mansbridge. It's a useful formula." 
 
 Henry told her to be calm. 
 
 "You don't know what you want yourselves," said 
 Margaret, folding her arms. "For one sensible remark 
 I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would 
 trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I'll 
 stand here all the day sooner." 
 
 "Mansbridge," said Henry in a. low voice, "perhaps 
 not now." 
 
 The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, 
 Crane also went back into the car. 
 
 "Now, Henry, you," she said gently. None of her bit- 
 
292 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 temess had been directed at him. "Go away now, dear. 
 I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive me if 
 I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go." 
 
 He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. 
 Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him. 
 
 "I shall soon find you down at Dolly's," she called, 
 as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly moved 
 out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed 
 again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm 
 carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, 
 for there was no hurry. When all was over and the car 
 had started, she opened the door. "Oh, my darling!" 
 she said. "My darling, forgive me." Helen was standing 
 in the hall. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would 
 have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice 
 that came strangely from her, said: 
 
 "Convenient! You did not tell me that the books 
 were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I 
 want." 
 
 "I told you nothing that was true." 
 
 "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley 
 been ill?" 
 
 "Helen, you wouldn't think I'd invent that?'' 
 
 "I suppose not," said Helen, tiiming away, and crying 
 a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after 
 this." 
 
 "We thought it Was illness, but even then— I haven't 
 behaved worthily." 
 
 Helen selected another book. 
 
 "I ought not to have consulted anyone. What would 
 our father have thought of me?" 
 
 S'm' did not think of questioning her sister, nor of 
 
Howards End 293 
 
 rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but 
 she had first to purge a greater crime than any that 
 Helen could have committed— that want of confidence 
 that is the work of the devil. 
 
 "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes 
 should have been respected. I would have gone through 
 this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley 
 recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I 
 now have to do—" 
 
 "Come away fjom those books," called Margaret. 
 "Helen, do talk to me." 
 
 "I was just saying that I have stopped living hap- 
 hazard. One can't go through a great deal of—" she 
 missed out the noun — "without planning one's actions 
 in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and, in 
 the first place, conversations, discussions, excitement, 
 are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, 
 but only then. In the second place, I have no right to 
 trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know 
 it. I have done something that the English never pardon. 
 It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must 
 live where I am not known." 
 
 "But why didn't you tell me, dearest?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but 
 decided to wait." 
 
 "I believe you would never have told me." 
 
 "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." 
 
 Margaret glanced out of the window. 
 
 "By 'we' I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am 
 and have been and always wish to be alone." 
 
 "I have not heard of Monica." 
 
 "You wouldn't have. She's an Italian— by birth, at 
 least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her 
 originally on Carda. Monica is much the best person 
 to see me through." 
 
 "You are very fond of her, then." 
 
 "She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." 
 
 Margaret guessed at Monica's type— "Italiano In- 
 glesiato" they had named it: the crude feminist of the 
 
294 ^- ^' ^O^'^STER 
 
 South, whom one lespects but avoids. And Helen had 
 turned to it in her need! 
 
 "You must not think that we shall never meet," said 
 Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have 
 a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer 
 you can be with me the better. But you haven't upder- 
 stood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. 
 This is a shock to you. It isn't to me, who have been 
 thinking over our futures for many months, and they 
 won't be changed by a slight contretemps such as this. 
 I cannot live in England." 
 
 "Helen, you've not forgiven me for my treachery. You 
 couldn't talk like this to me if you had." 
 
 "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped 
 a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she 
 said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down 
 here?" 
 
 "Series of mistakes." 
 
 "And a great deal of the furniture has been un- 
 packed." 
 
 "All.<' 
 
 "Who lives here, then?" 
 
 "No one." 
 
 "I suppose you are letting it, though," 
 
 "The house is dead," said Margaret with a frown. 
 "Why worry on about it?" 
 
 "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my 
 interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now, this hasn't 
 the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even 
 than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes' own 
 thiiigs." 
 
 "interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I 
 suppose. My husband lent it on condition we— but 
 by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss 
 Avery, instead of—" She stopped. "Look here, I can't 
 go on like this. I warn you I won't. Helen, why should 
 you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you 
 hate Henry?" 
 
Howards End 295 
 
 "I don't hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped 
 being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I'm not being 
 unkind. But as for fitting in with youi English life— no, 
 put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me 
 at Ducie Street! It's unthinkable." 
 
 Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling 
 to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not 
 bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor con- 
 fessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company 
 of those who would not blame her. She had been 
 through — how much? Margaret did not' know. But it 
 was enough to part her from old habits as well as old 
 friends. 
 
 "Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen 
 her books, and was lingering over the furniture. 
 
 "There's nothing to tell." 
 
 "But yOur marriage has been happy, Meg?" 
 
 "Yes, but I don't feel inclined to talk." 
 
 "You feel as I do^." 
 
 "Not that, but I can't." 
 
 "No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying." 
 
 Something had come between thein^ Perhaps it was 
 Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Per- 
 haps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They 
 could find no meeting-place. Both sufliered acutely, and 
 were not comforted by the knowledge that affection 
 survived. 
 
 "Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?" 
 
 "You mean that you want to go away from me?" 
 
 "I suppose so— dear old lady! it isn't any use. I knew 
 we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt 
 Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can say. 
 Promise to come and see me in Munich later." 
 
 "Certainly, dearest." 
 
 "Fox that is all we can do." 
 
 It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen's com- 
 mon sense: Monica had been extraordinarily good for 
 her. 
 
296 E. M. FOKSTEK 
 
 "it am glad to have seen you and the things." She 
 looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying 
 farewell to the past. 
 
 Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car 
 has gone, and here's your cab." 
 
 She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the 
 sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The 
 driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out: "Please, 
 lady, a message," and handed her Henry's visiting-card 
 through the bars. 
 
 "How did this come?" she asked. 
 
 Crane had returned with it almost at once. 
 
 She read the card with annoyance. It was covered wilji 
 instructions in domestic French. When she and her 
 sister had talked, she was to come back for the night to 
 Dolly's. "II faut dormir sur ce sujet." While Helen was 
 to be found "une confortable chambre k I'hdtel." The 
 final sentence displeased her greatly until she remem- 
 bered that the Charleses had only one spare room, and 
 so could not invite a third guest. 
 
 /'Henry would have done what he could," she inter- 
 preted. 
 
 Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door 
 was open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained 
 in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more 
 like the old Helen, irresppnsible and channing. 
 
 "This is Mr. Wilcox's house?" she inquired. 
 
 "Surely you remember Howards End?" 
 
 "Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks 
 to be ours now." 
 
 "Miss Avery was extraordiiiary," said Margaret, her 
 own spirits lightening a little. Again she was invaded 
 by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief, 
 and she yielded to it. "She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and 
 would rather furnish her house with our things than 
 think of it empty. In consequence, here are all the li- 
 brary books." 
 
 "Not all the books. She hasn't unpacked the Art 
 
Howards End 297 
 
 Books, in which she may show her sense. And we never 
 used to have the sword here." 
 
 "The sword looks well, though." 
 
 "Magnificent." 
 
 "Yes, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Where's the piano, Meg?" 
 
 "I warehoused that in London. Why?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." 
 
 "The carpet's a mistake," announced Helen. "I know 
 that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be 
 bare. It is far too beautiful." 
 
 "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would 
 you care to come into the dining-room before you start? 
 There's no carpet there." 
 
 They went in, and each minute their talk became 
 more natural. 
 
 "Oh, what a place for mother's chifi^onier!" cried 
 Helen. 
 
 "Look at the chairs, though." 
 
 "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn't 
 it?" 
 
 "North-west." 
 
 "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs 
 have felt the sun. Feel. Their little backs are quite 
 warm." 
 
 "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? 
 I shall just—" 
 
 "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will 
 see the lawn." 
 
 Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. 
 
 "Ye-es. The window's too high." 
 
 'Try a drawing-room chair." 
 
 "No, I don't like the drawing-room so much. The 
 beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so 
 beautiful otherwise." 
 
 "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! 
 You're perfectly right. It's a room that men have spoilt 
 
298 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 through trying to make it nice for women. Men don'i 
 know what we want — " 
 
 "And never will." 
 
 "I don't agree. In two thousand years they'll know." 
 
 "But the chairs show up wonderfully. Look where 
 "Tibby spilt the soup." 
 
 "Coffee. It was coffee surely." 
 
 Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far 
 too young to be given coffee at that time." 
 
 "Was Father alive?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you're right and it must have been soup, I was 
 thinking of much later— that unsuccessful visit of Aunt 
 Juley's, when she didn't realize that Tibby had grown 
 up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. 
 There was some rhyme, 'Tea, coffee— coffee, tea,' that 
 she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a min- 
 ute—how did it go?" 
 
 "I know— no, I don't. What a detestable boy Tibby 
 was!" 
 
 "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person 
 could have put up with it." 
 
 "Ah, that greengage tree," cried Helen, as if the gar- 
 den was also part of their childhood. "Why do I con- 
 nect it with dumbbells? And there come the chickens. 
 The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers—" 
 
 Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she an- 
 nounced. 
 
 "Tea, tea, cojfee, tea, 
 Or chocolaritee. 
 
 "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder 
 Tibby was wild." 
 
 "Tibby is moderately a dear riow," said Helen. 
 
 "There! I knew you'd say that in the end. Of course 
 he's a dear." 
 
 A bell rang. 
 
 "Listen! what's that?" 
 
Howards End 299 
 
 Helen said: "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the 
 siege." 
 
 "What nonsense— Hsten!" 
 
 And the triviaHty faded from their faces, though it 
 left something behind— the knowledge that they never 
 could be parted because their love was rooted in com- 
 mon things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they 
 had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only 
 made each other unhappy. And all the time their salva- 
 tion was lying round them— the past sanctifying the 
 present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring 
 that there would after all be a future, with laughter and 
 the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up 
 to her sister. She said: "It is always Meg." TTiey looked 
 into each other's eyes. The inner life had paid. 
 
 Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. 
 Margaret went to the kitchen and struggled between 
 packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a 
 little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned, 
 
 "Little boy, what do you want?" 
 
 "Please, I am the milk." 
 
 "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather 
 sharply. 
 
 "Yes, please." 
 
 "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While 
 she called to Helen: "No, it's not the siege, but possibly 
 an attempt to provision us against one." 
 
 "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" 
 
 "Do you? Oh, very well. But we've nothing to put 
 it in, and he wants the can." 
 
 "Please, I'm to call in the morning for the can," said 
 the boy. 
 
 "The house will be locked up then." 
 
 "In the morning would ^I bring eggs, too?" 
 
 "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks 
 last week?" 
 
 The child hung his head. 
 
 "Well, run away and do it again." 
 
JOO E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what's 
 your name? Mine's Helen." 
 
 "Tom." 
 
 That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would 
 ask a child its name, but they never told their names in 
 return. 
 
 "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we've 
 another called Tibby." 
 
 "Mine are lop-eared," replied Tom, supposing Tibby 
 to be a rabbit. 
 
 "You're a very good and rather a clever little boy. 
 Mind you come again. — Isn't he charming?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the 
 son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place 
 has wonderful powers." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Because I probably agree with you." 
 
 "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful 
 live." 
 
 "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But 
 you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." 
 
 "Meaning that-I was dead. I felt it." 
 
 "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it 
 was empty, and, as it is, I Ean't get over that for thirty 
 years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. 
 After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I've a star- 
 tling idea." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Drink some milk to steady you" 
 
 Margaret obeyed. 
 
 "No, I won't tell you yet," said Helen, "because you 
 may laugh or be angry. Let's go upstairs first and give 
 the rooms an airing." 
 
 They opened window after window, till the inside, 
 too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture- 
 frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excite- 
 ment as she found this bed obviously in its right place, 
 that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery 
 
Howards End 301 
 
 for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one 
 would see really." She admired the view. She was the 
 Helen who had written the memorable letters four years 
 ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: 
 "About my idea. Couldn't you and I camp out in this 
 house for the night?" 
 
 "I- don't think we could well do that," said Margaret. 
 
 "Here are beds, tables, towels—" 
 
 "I know; but the house isn't supposed to be slept* in, 
 and Henry's suggestion was—" - 
 
 "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything 
 in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to 
 have one night here with you. It will be something to 
 look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let's!" 
 
 "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can't with- 
 out getting Henry's leave. Of course, he would give it, 
 but you said yourself that you couldn't visit at Ducie 
 Street now, and this is equally intimate." 
 
 "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, 
 our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp 
 out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and 
 milk. Why not? It's a moon." 
 
 Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn't like it," 
 she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and 
 I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley's illness 
 prevented me. I sympathize with Charles. He feels it's 
 his mother's house. He loves it in rather an untaking 
 way. Henry I could answer for— not Charles/' 
 
 "I know he won't like it," said Helen. "But I am going 
 to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make 
 in the long run if they say: 'And she even spent the 
 night at Howards End'?" 
 
 "How do you know you'll pass out of their lives? We 
 have thought that twice before." 
 
 "Because my plans—" 
 
 "—which you change in a moment." 
 
 "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," 
 said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they caii't 
 know of, and so do you. We know that there's poetry. 
 
302 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 We know that there's death. They can only take them 
 on hearsay; We know this is our house, because it feels 
 ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the doorkeysj 
 but for this one night we are at home." 
 
 "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," 
 said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." 
 
 "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It 
 won't be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm 
 —honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have 
 this one night with you?" 
 
 "i needn't say how much it would mean to me." 
 
 "Then let us." 
 
 "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hil- 
 ton now and get leave?" 
 
 "Oh, we don't want leave." 
 
 But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagina- 
 tion and -poetry — perhaps on account of them— she 
 could sympathize with the technical attitude that 
 Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, 
 too. A night's lodging— and they demanded no more- 
 need not involve the discussion of general principles. 
 
 "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. 
 
 "We shan't consult him." 
 
 "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." 
 
 It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough 
 to mar Helen's character, and even added to its beauty. 
 She would have stopped without leave, and escaped to 
 Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. 
 
 "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward 
 to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a 
 beautiful fhing." 
 
 "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather 
 sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret 
 again as soon as she left the house. 
 
 She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to ful- 
 fil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see 
 no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only 
 little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw 
 
Howards End 303 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 The tragedy began quietly enough, and like many an- 
 other talk, by the man's deft assertion of his superority. 
 Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out 
 and settled the tellow, who was inclined to be rude, 
 and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, 
 who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. 
 He refused them, and ordered her to wheel baby's per- 
 ambulator away, as they desired to be alone. 
 
 "But the diddums can't listen; he isn't nine months 
 old," she pleaded. 
 
 "That's not what I was saying," retorted her father- 
 in-law. 
 
 Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear 
 about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of 
 Margaret. 
 
 "Is it what we feared?" he asked. 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome busi- 
 ness ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute 
 honesty and plain speech will see us through." Mar- 
 garet bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on 
 subjects we'd both prefer to leave untouched. As you 
 know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who con- 
 sider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, 
 but there are occasions— We are husband and wife, not 
 children. I, am a man of the world, and you are a most 
 exceptional woman." 
 
 All Margaret's senses forsook her. She blushed, and 
 looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring - 
 herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. 
 
 "I see that you feel as I felt when— My poor little 
 wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I 
 
30^ E. M. FORSTES 
 
 have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding- 
 ring?" 
 
 Margaret stammered a "No." 
 
 There was an appalling silence. 
 
 "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards 
 End." 
 
 "One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for 
 the name of her seducer." 
 
 She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. 
 Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not dis- 
 please him that she should receive his question thus. 
 
 "Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember 
 that this is far worse for me than for you." 
 
 She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then 
 speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do 
 not know her seducer's name." 
 
 "Would she not tell you?" 
 
 "I never even asked her who seduced her," said Mar- 
 garet, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully. 
 
 "That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Nat- 
 ural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn't ask. But until 
 his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. 
 How' terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you 
 weren't fit for it. I wish I hadn't taken you." 
 
 Margaret answered: "I like to stand, if you don't 
 mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills." 
 
 "As you like." 
 
 "Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?" 
 
 "Next you must tell me whether you have gathered 
 anything. I have often noticed your insight, dear. I only 
 wish my own was as good. You may have guessed some^ 
 thing, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest 
 hint would help us." 
 
 "Who is 'we'?" 
 
 'I thought it best to ring up Charles." 
 
 "That was Unnecessary," said Margaret, growing 
 warmer. "This news will give Charles disproportionate 
 pain." 
 
 "He has at once gone to call on your brother." 
 
Howards End 305 
 
 "That .too was unnecessary." 
 
 "Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You 
 don't think that I and my son are other than gentle- 
 men? It is in Helen's interests that we are acting. It is 
 still not too late to save her name." 
 
 Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to 
 make her seducer marry her?" she asked. 
 
 "It possible. Yes." 
 
 "But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married al- 
 ready? One has heard of such cases." 
 
 "In that case, he must pay heavily for his misconduct, 
 and be thrashed within an inch of his life." 
 
 So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What 
 had tempted her to imperil both of their lives? Henry's 
 obtuseness had saved her as well as himself. Exhausted 
 with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he 
 told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: 
 "May I ask you my question now?" 
 
 "Certainly, my dear." 
 
 "Tomorrow Helen goes to Munich—" 
 
 "Well, possibly she is right." 
 
 "Henry, let a lady finish. Tomorrow she goes; tonight, 
 with your permission, she would like to sleep at How- 
 ards End." 
 
 It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have re- 
 called the words as soon as they were uttered. She had 
 not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed to 
 warn him that they were far more important than he 
 supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were 
 a business proposition. 
 
 "Why Howards End?" he said at last. Would she 
 not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?" 
 
 Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd 
 request, but you know what Helen is and what women 
 in her state are." He frowned, and moved irritably. "She 
 has the idea that one night in your house would give 
 her pleasure and do her good. I think she's nght. Bemg 
 one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our 
 books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the 
 
306 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 end of her girlhood.' Her last words to me were: 'A 
 beautiful ending/ " 
 
 "She values die old furniture for sentimental reasons, 
 in fact." 
 
 "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last 
 hope of being with it." 
 
 "I don't agree there, my dear! Helen will have her 
 share of the goods wherever she goes— possibly more 
 than her share, for you are so fond of her that you'd 
 give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn't 
 you? and I'd raise no objection. I could understand it 
 if it was her old home, because a home, or a house"— 
 he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a 
 telling point— "because a house in which one has once 
 lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don't know 
 why. Associations and so on. Now, Helen has no associ- 
 ations with Howards End, though I and Charles and 
 Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the 
 night there. She will only catch cold." 
 
 "Leave it that you don't see," cried Margaret. "Call 
 it fancy. But realize that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen 
 is fanciful, and wants to." 
 
 Then he surprised her— a rare occurrence. He shot 
 an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night, 
 she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out 
 of the house, perhaps." 
 
 "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. 
 "And suppose we don't get her out of the house? 
 Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." 
 
 Again the irritated gesture. 
 
 "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn't mean 
 that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one 
 night. I take her to London tomorrow-" 
 
 "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" 
 
 "She cannot be left alone." 
 
 "That's quite impossible! Madness. You must be 
 here to meet Charles." 
 
 "I have already told you that your message to Charles 
 was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." 
 
Howards End 307 
 
 "Margaret— my Margaret—" 
 
 "What has this business to do with Charles? If it con- 
 cerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at 
 all." 
 
 "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. 
 Wilcox, arching his fingers, "I should say that it did 
 concern Charles." 
 
 "In what way? Will Helen's condition depreciate the 
 property?" 
 
 "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." 
 
 "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." 
 
 They looked at each other in amazement. The prec- 
 ipice was at their feet now. 
 
 "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As 
 your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I 
 have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against 
 than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has 
 happened. I should be false to my position in society 
 if I did." 
 
 She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us 
 go back to Helen's request," she said. "It is unreason- 
 able, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she 
 will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To- 
 night she asks to sleep in your empty house— a house 
 which you do not care about, and which you have not 
 occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my 
 sister leave? Will you forgive her— as you hope to be 
 forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? For- 
 give her for one night only. That will be enough." 
 
 "As I have actually been forgiven-?" 
 
 "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," 
 said Margaret. "Answer my question." 
 
 Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. 
 If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he 
 answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have 
 some experience of life, and know how one thing leads 
 to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep 
 at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my 
 dear wife tc consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves 
 
3o8 E. M. FOSSTER 
 
 my house at once." 
 
 "You mentiened Mrs. Wilcox." 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" 
 
 "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. 
 Bast?" 
 
 "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, 
 and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret 
 rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was trans- 
 figured. 
 
 "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the 
 connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a 
 mistress — I forgave you. My sister has a lover— you 
 drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? 
 Stupid, hypocritical, cruel— oh, contemptible!— a man 
 who insults his wife when she's alive and cants with her 
 memory when she's dead. A man who ruins a woman 
 for his pleasure, and casts her oflE to ruin other men. 
 And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not 
 responsible. These, man, are you. You can't recognize 
 them, because you cannot connect. I've had enough of 
 your unweeded kindness. I've spoilt you long enough. 
 All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled 
 you. No one has ever told you what you are— muddled, 
 criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a 
 blind, so don't repent. Only say to yourself: What 
 Helen has done, I've done.' " 
 
 "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. 
 His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still 
 in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. 
 
 "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. 
 Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, 
 Helen can't. You have had only pleasure, she may die. 
 You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, 
 Henry?" 
 
 Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry's retort came. 
 
 "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is 
 scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her 
 husband. My rule through life has been never to pay 
 
Howards End 509 
 
 the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat 
 what I said before: I do not give you and your sister 
 leave to sleep at Howards End." 
 
 Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, 
 wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief. 
 For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of 
 warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out into 
 what was now the evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the lat- 
 ter was staying. Their interview was short and absurd. 
 They had nothing in common but the English lan- 
 guage, and tried by its help to express what neither of 
 them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. 
 He had singled her out as the most dangerous of the 
 Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward to tell- 
 ing his wife how right he had been. His mind was made 
 up at once: the girl must be got out of the way before 
 she disgraced them further. If occasion offered, she 
 might be married to a villain or, possibly, to a fool. But 
 this was a concession to morality, it formed no part of 
 his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles's dis- 
 IHce, and the past spread itself out very clearly before 
 him; hatred is a skilful compositor. As if they were 
 heads in a note-book, he ran through all the incidents 
 of the Schlegels' campaign: the attempt to compromise 
 his brother, his mother's legacy, his father's marriage^ 
 the introduction of the furniture, the unpacking of the 
 same. He had not yet heard of the request to sleep at 
 Howards End; that was to be their master-stroke and 
 the opportunity for his. But he already felt that How- 
 ards End was the objective, and, though he disliked the 
 house, was determined to defend it. 
 Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood 
 
JIO E. M. FORSTER 
 
 above the conventions: his sister had a right to do what 
 she thought right. It is not difficult to stand above the 
 conventions wherr we leave no hostages among them; 
 men can always be more unconventional than women, 
 and a bachelor of independent means need encounter 
 no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money 
 enough; his ancestors bad earned it tor him, and if he 
 shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only 
 to move into another. His was the leisure without sym- 
 pathy—an attitude as fatal as the strenuous: a little 
 cold culture may be raised on it, but no art. His sisters 
 had seen the family danger, and had never forgotten to 
 discount the gold islets that raised theiri from the sea. 
 Tibby gave all the praise to himself, and so despised 
 the struggling and the submerged. 
 
 Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf be- 
 tween them was economic as well as spiritual. But sev- 
 eral facts passed: Charles pressed for them with an im- 
 pertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand. 
 On what date had Helen gone abroad? To whom? 
 (Charles was anxious to fasten the scandal on Ger- 
 many.) Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: "I 
 suppose you realize that you are your sister's protector?" 
 
 "In what sense?" 
 
 "If a man played about with my sister, I'd send a bul- 
 let through him, but perhaps you don't mind." 
 
 "r mind very much,'' protested Tibby. . 
 
 "Who d'ye suspect, then? Speak out, man. One al- 
 ways suspects sonieone." 
 
 "No one. I don't think so." Involuntarily he blushed. 
 He had remembered the scene in his Oxford rooms. 
 
 "You are hiding something," said Charles. As in- 
 terviews go, he got the best of this one. "When you saw 
 her last, did she mention anyone's name? Yes, or nol" 
 he thundered, so that Tibby started. 
 
 "In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called 
 the Basts—" 
 
 "Who are the Basts?" 
 
 "People— friends of hers at Evie's wedding." 
 
Howards End an 
 
 "I don't remember. But, by great Scott! I do. My 
 aunt told me about some tag-rag. Was she full of them 
 when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she speak of the 
 inan? Or— look here— have you had any dealings with 
 him?" 
 
 Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had be- 
 trayed his sister's confidence; he was not enough inter- 
 ested in human life to see where things will lead to. 
 He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once 
 given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply 
 vexed, not only for the harm he had done Helen, but 
 for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment. 
 
 "I see— you are in his confidence. They met at your 
 rooms. Oh, what a family, what a family! God help the 
 poor pater—" 
 
 And Tibby found himself alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Leonard— he would figure at length iii a newspaper re- 
 port, but that evening he did not count for much. The 
 foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon was still 
 hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to left, 
 down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming. 
 Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause. 
 
 Perhaps it was Helen's way of falhng in love— a curi- 
 ous way to Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt 
 of Henry were yet imprinted with his image. Helen 
 forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed her 
 emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have in- 
 stincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest way, 
 where man and woman, having lost themselves in sex, 
 desire to lose sex itself in comradeship? 
 
 Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This 
 
 was Helen's evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of her 
 
 -the loss of friends and of social advantages, the ag'iny, 
 
312 E. M. FORSTEK 
 
 the supreme agony, ot motherhood, which is even yet 
 not a matter of common knowledge. For the present let 
 the moon shine brightly and the breezes of the spring 
 blow gently, dying away from the gale of the day, and 
 let the earth, who brings increase, bnng peace. Not even 
 to herself dare she blame Helen. She could not assess 
 her trespass by any moral code; it was everything or 
 nothing. Morality can tell us that murder is worse tiian 
 stealing, and group most sins in an order all must ap- 
 prove, but it cannot group Helen. The surer its pro- 
 nouncements on this point, the surer may we be that 
 morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they 
 questioned Him. It is those that cannot connect who 
 hasten to cast the first stone. 
 
 This was Helen's evening— won at what cost, and not 
 to be maned by the sorrows of others. Of her own trag- 
 edy Margaret never'uttered a word. 
 
 "One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr. 
 Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leon- 
 ard downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and al- 
 most of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox 
 only, and so, when your letters came—" 
 
 "I need never have written them," sighed Margaret. 
 "They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy 
 away the past, even for others!" 
 
 "I did not kiiow that it was your own idea to dismiss 
 the Basts." 
 
 "Looking back, that was wrong of me." 
 
 "Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is 
 right to save the man whom one loves. I am less en- 
 thusiastic about justice now. But we both thought 
 you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch ot 
 his callousness. Being very much wrought up by this 
 time— and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, 
 and had talked for a long time to Leonard— I had 
 snubbed him for no reason, and that should have 
 warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came I 
 wanted us to go to you for an explanation. He said that 
 he guessed the explanation— he knew of it, and you 
 
Howards End 31^ 
 
 mustn't know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one 
 must know; it was something to do with his wife. Right 
 up to the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss Schlegel. I 
 was going to tell him that he must be irank with me 
 when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had 
 rained him in two ways, not one. I drew him to me. 'I 
 made him tell me. I felt very lonely myself. He is not 
 to blame. He would have gone on worshipping me. I 
 want never to see him again, though it sounds appalling. 
 I wanted to give him money and feel finished. Oh, Meg, 
 the little that is known about these things!" 
 
 She laid her face against the tree. 
 
 "The little, too, that is known about growth! Both 
 times it was loneliness, and the night, and panic after- 
 wards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?" 
 
 Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was 
 she that her attention had actually wandered to the 
 teeth— the teeth that had been thrust into the tree's 
 bark to medicate it. From where she sat she could see 
 them gleam. She had been trying to count them. "Leon- 
 ard is a better growth than madness," she said. "I was 
 afraid that you would react against Paul until you went 
 over the verge." 
 
 "I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady 
 now. I shan't ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even 
 speak kindly about him, but all that blinding hate is 
 over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I 
 understand how you married him, and you will now be 
 very happy." 
 
 Margaret did not reply. 
 
 'Tes," repeated Helen, her voice growing more ten- 
 der, "I do at last understand." 
 
 "Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands 
 our little movements." 
 
 "Because in death— I agree." 
 
 "Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are only 
 feagments of that woman's mind. She knows everything. 
 She is everything. She is the house, and the tree that 
 leans over it. People have their own deaths as well as 
 
314 E. M. lORSTEK 
 
 their own lives, and even if there is nothing beyond 
 death, we shall differ in our nothingness. I cannot be- 
 lieve that knowledge such as hers will perish with 
 knowledge such as mine. She knew about realities. She 
 knew when people were in love, though she was not in 
 the room. I don't doubt that she knew when Henry de- 
 ceived her." 
 
 "Good night, Mrs. Wilcox," called a voice. 
 
 "Oh, good night. Miss Avery." 
 
 "Why should Miss Avery work for us?" Helen mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Why, indeed?" 
 
 Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the 
 hedge that divided it from the farm. An old gap, which 
 Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had reappeared, and her track 
 through the dew followed the path that he had turfed 
 over when he improved the garden and made it pos- 
 sible for games. 
 
 "This is not quite our house yet," said Heldn. "When 
 Miss Avery called, I felt we aie only a couple of 
 tourists." 
 
 "We shall be that everywhere, and for ever." 
 
 "But affectionate tourists—" 
 
 "But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home." 
 
 "I can't pretend very long," said Helen. "Sitting un- 
 der this tree, one forgets, but I know that tomorrow I 
 shall see the moon rise out of Germany. Not all your 
 goodness can alter the facts of the case. Unless you will 
 come with me." 
 
 Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she 
 had grown so fond of England that to leave it was a real 
 grief. Yet what detained her? No doubt Henry would 
 pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and mud- 
 dling into a ripe old age. But what was the good? She 
 had just as soon vanish from his mind. 
 
 "Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get 
 on with your Monica?" 
 
 "You would not, but I am serious in asking you." 
 
Howards End ji^ 
 
 "Still, no more plans now. And no more reminis- 
 cences." 
 
 They were silent for a little. It was Helen's evening. 
 
 The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree 
 rustled. It had made music before they were bom, and 
 would continue after their deaths, but its song was of 
 the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled 
 again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed 
 to apprehend Ufe. Life passed. The tree rustled again. 
 
 "Sleep now," said Margaret. 
 
 The peace of the country was entering into her. It 
 has no commerce with memory, and little with hope. 
 Least of all is it concerned with the hopes of the next 
 five minutes. It is the peace of the present, which passes 
 understanding. Its murmur came "now," and "now" 
 once more as they trod the gravel, and "now," as the 
 moonlight fell upon their father's sword. They passed 
 upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endless iterations fell 
 asleep. The house had enshadowed the tree at first, but 
 as the moon rose higher the two disentangled, and were 
 clear for a few moments at midnight. Margaret awoke 
 and looked into the garden. How incomprehensible 
 that Leonard Bast should have won her this night of 
 peace! Was he also part of Mrs. Wilcox's mind? 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 Far different was Leonard's development. The months 
 after Oniton, whatever minor troubles they might bring 
 hini, were all overshadowed by Remorse. When Helen 
 looked back, she could philosophize, or she could look 
 into the future and plan for her child. But the father 
 saw nothing beyond his own sin. Weeks afterwards, in 
 the midst of other occupations, he would suddenly cry 
 out: "Brute— you brute, I couldn't have—" and be rent 
 
316 ) E. M. FORSTER 
 
 into two people who held dialogues. Or brown rain 
 would descend, blotting out faces and the sky. Even 
 Jacky noticed the change in him. Most terrible were his 
 sufferings when he awoke from sleep. Sometimes he. was 
 happy at first, but grew conscious of a burden hanging 
 to him and weighing down his thoughts when they 
 would move. Or little irons scorched his body. Or a 
 sword stabbed him. He would sit at the edge of his bed, 
 holding his heart and moaning: "Oh, what shall I do, 
 whatever shall I do?" Nothing brought ease. He could 
 put distance between him and the trespass, but it grew 
 in his'soul. 
 
 Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The 
 Greeks were right to dethrone her. Her action is too 
 capricious, as though the Erinyes selected for punish- 
 ment only certain men and certain sins. And of all 
 means to regeneration. Remorse is surely the most 
 wasteful. It cuts away healthy tissues with the poisoned. 
 It is a knife that probes far deeper than the evil. Leon- 
 ard was driven straight through its torments and 
 emerged pure, but enfeebled— a better man, who would 
 never lose control of himself again, but also a smaller 
 man, who had less to control. Nor did purity mean 
 peace. The use of the knife can become a habit as hard 
 to shake off as passion itself, and Leonard continued to 
 start with a cry out of dreams. 
 
 He built up a situation that was far enough from the 
 truth. It never occurred to him that Helen was to 
 blame. He forgot the intensity of their talk, the charm 
 that had been lent him by sincerity, the magic of Oni- 
 ton under darkness and of the whispering river. Helen 
 loved the absolute. Leonard had been ruined abso- 
 lutely, and had appeared to her as a man apart, isolated 
 from the world. A real man, who cared for adventure 
 and beauty, who desired to live decently and pay his 
 way, who could have travelled more gloriously through 
 life than the Juggernaut car that was crushing him. 
 Memories of Evie's wedding had warped her, the 
 starched servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustle 
 
Howards End aiy 
 
 of overdressed women, motor-cars oozing grease on the 
 gravel, rubbish on a pretentious band. She had tasted 
 the lees of this on her arrival: in the darkness, after 
 failure, they intoxicated her. She and the victim seemed 
 alone in a world of unreality, and she loved him abso- 
 lutely, perhaps for half an hour. 
 
 In the morning she was gone. The note that she left, , 
 tender and hysterical in tone, and intended to be most 
 kind, hurt her lover terribly. It was as if some work of 
 art had been broken by him, some picture in the Na- 
 tional Gallery slashed out of its frame. When he re- 
 called her talents and her social position, he felt that the 
 first passer-by had a right to shoot him down. He was 
 afraid of the waitress and the porters af the railway- 
 station. He was afraid at first of his wife, though later 
 he was to regard her with a strange new tenderness, and 
 to think: "There is nothing to choose between us, after 
 all." 
 
 The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts per- 
 manently. Helen in her Bight forgot to settle the hotel 
 bill, and took their return tickets away with her; they 
 had to pawn Jacky's bangles to get home, and the 
 smash came a few days afterwards. It is true that Helen 
 offered him five thousand pounds, but such a sum 
 meant nothing to him. He could not see that 4he girl 
 was desperately righting herself, and trying to save some- 
 thing out of the disaster, if it was only five thousand 
 pounds. But he had to live somehow. He turned to his 
 family, and degraded himself to a professional beggar. 
 There was nothing else for him to do. 
 
 "A letter from Leonard," thought Blanche, his sister; 
 "and after all this time." She hid it, so that her husband 
 should not see, and, when he had gone to his work, 
 read it with some emotion and sent the prodigal a little 
 money out of her dress allowance. 
 
 "A letter from Leonard!" said the other sister, Laura, 
 a few days later. She showed it to her husband. He 
 wrote a cruel, insolent reply, but sent more money than 
 Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to him again. 
 
318 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 And during the winter the system was developed. 
 Leonard realized that they need never starve, because '•• 
 would be too painful for his relatives. Society is based 
 on the family, and the clever wastrel can exploit this 
 indefinitely. Without a generous thought on either side, 
 pounds and pounds passed. The donors disliked Leon- 
 ard, and he grew to hate them intensely. When Laura 
 censured his immoral marriage, he thought bitterly: 
 "She minds that! What would she say if she knew the 
 truth?" When Blanche's husband oflFered him work, he 
 found some pretext for avoiding it. He had wanted 
 work keenly at Oniton, but too much anxiety had shat- 
 tered him; he was joining the unemployable. When his 
 brother, the lay reader, did not reply to a letter, he wrote 
 again, saying that he and Jacky would come down to his 
 village on foot. He did not intend this as blackmail. 
 Still, the brother sent a postal order, and it became part 
 of the system. And so passed his winter and his spring. 
 
 In the horror there are two bright spots. He never 
 confused the past. He remained alive, and blessed 
 are those who live, ii it is only to a sense of sinfulness. 
 The anodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur 
 and blend their mistakes, never passed Leonard's lips— 
 
 And if I drink oblivion of a day. 
 So shorten I the stature of my soul. 
 
 It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it 
 lies at the foot of all character. 
 
 And the other bright spot was his tenderness for 
 Jacky. He pitied her with nobility now— not the con- 
 temptuous pity of a man who sticks to a woman 
 through thick and thin. He tried to be less irritable. He 
 wondered what her hungry eyes desired— nothing that 
 she could express, or that he or any man could give her. 
 Would she ever receive the justice that is mercy— the 
 justice for by-products that the world is too busy to be- 
 stow? She was fond of flowers, generous with money, 
 and not revengeful. If she had borne him a child, he 
 might have cared for her. Unmarried, Leonard would 
 
Howards End aio 
 
 never have begged; he would have flickered out and 
 died. But the whole of life is mixed. He had to provide 
 for Jacky, and went down dirty paths that she might 
 have a few feathers and dishes of food that suited her. 
 
 One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother. 
 He was in St. Paul's. He had entered the cathedral 
 partly to avoid the rain and partly to see a picture that 
 had educated him in former years. But the light was 
 bad, the picture ill placed, and Time and Judgment 
 were inside him now. Death alone still charmed him, 
 with her lap of poppies, on which all men shall sleep. 
 He took one glance, and turned aimlessly away towards 
 a chair. Then down the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and 
 her brother. They stood in the fairway of passengers, 
 and their faces were extremely grave. He was perfectly 
 certain that they were in trouble about their sister. 
 
 Once outside— and he fled immediately— he wished 
 that he had spoken to them. What was his life? What 
 were a few angry words, or even imprisonment? He 
 had done wrong— that was the true tenor. What- 
 ever they might know, he would tell them everything 
 he knew. He re-entered St. Paul's. But they had moved 
 in his absence, and had gone to lay their difiBculties be- 
 fore Mr. Wilcox and Charles. 
 
 The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new chan- 
 nels. He desired to confess, and though the desire is 
 proof of a weakened nature, which is about to lose the 
 essence of human intercourse, it did not take an ig- 
 noble form. He did not suppose that confession would 
 bring him happiness. It was rather that he yearned to 
 get clear of the tangle. So does the suicide yearn. The 
 impulses are akin, and the crime of suicide lies rather 
 in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave 
 behind. Confession need harm no one— it can satisfy 
 that test— and though it was un-English, and ignored 
 by our Anglican cathedral, Leonard had a right to d© ' 
 cide upon it. 
 
 Moreoever, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her hard 
 less now. That cold, intellectual nature of hers wouM 
 
320 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 be just, it unkind. He would do whatever she told him, 
 even if he had to see Helen. That was the supreme pun- 
 ishment she would exact. And perhaps she would tell 
 him how Helen was. That was the supreme reward. 
 
 He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether 
 she was married to Mr. Wilcox, and tracking her out 
 took several days. That evening he toiled through the 
 wet to Wickham Place, where the new flats were now 
 appearing. Was he also the cause of their move? Were 
 they expelled from society on his account? Thence to a 
 public library, but could find no satisfactory Schlegel 
 in the directory. On the, morrow he searched again. He 
 hung about outside Mr. Wilcox's ofl5ce at lunch time, 
 and, as the clerks came out, said: "Excuse me, sir, but 
 is your boss married?" Most of them stared, some said 
 "What's that to you?" but one, who had not yet ac- 
 quired reticence, told him what he wished. Leonard 
 could not learn the private address. That necessitated 
 more trouble with directories and tubes. Ducie Street 
 was not discovered till the Monday, the day that Mar- 
 garet and her husband went down on their hunting ex- 
 pedition to Howards End. 
 
 He called at about four o clock. The weather had 
 changed, and the sun shone gaily on the ornamental 
 5teps— black and white marble in triangles. Leonard 
 lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell. He felt 
 in curious health: doors seemed to be opening and shut- 
 ting inside his body, and he had been obliged to sleep 
 sitting up in bed, with his back propped against the 
 wall. When the parlour^maid came, he could not see her 
 face; the brown rain had descended suddenly. 
 
 "Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?" he asked. 
 
 "She's out," was the answer. 
 
 "When will she be back?" 
 
 "I'll ask," said the parlour*maid. 
 
 Margaret had given instructions that no one who 
 mentioned her name should ever be rebuffed. Putting 
 the door on the chain— for Leonard's appearance de- 
 tnanded this— she went through to the smoking-room, 
 
Howards End 521 
 
 which was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He 
 had had a good lunch. Charles Wilcox had not yet 
 rang him up for the distracting interview. He said 
 drowsily: "I don't know. Hilton. Howards End. Who is 
 it?" 
 
 "I'll ask, sir." 
 
 "No, don't bother." 
 
 "They have taken the car to Howards End," said the 
 parlour-maid to Leonard. 
 
 He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place 
 was. 
 
 "You appear to want to know a good deal," she re- 
 marked. But Margaret had forbidden her to be mysteri- 
 ous. She told him against her better judgment that 
 Howards End was in Hertfordshire. 
 
 "Is it a village, please?" 
 
 "Village! It's Mr. Wilcox's private house— at least, it's 
 one of them. Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture there. Hil- 
 ton is the village." 
 
 "Yes. And when will they be back?" 
 
 "Mr. Schlegel doesn't know. We can't know every- 
 thing, can we?" She shut him out, and went to attend 
 to the telephone, which was ringing furiously. 
 
 He loitered away another night of agony. Confession 
 grew more difficult. As soon as possible he went to bed. 
 He watched a patch of moonlight cross the floor of their 
 lodging, and, as sometimes happens when the mind is 
 overtaxed, he fell asleep for the rest of the room, but 
 kept awake for the patch of moonlight. Horrible! Then 
 began one of those disintegrating dialogues. Part of him 
 said: "Why horrible? It's ordinary light from the 
 moon." "But it moves." "So does the moon." "But it is 
 a clenched fist." "Why not?" "But it is going to touch 
 me." "Let it." And, seeming to gather motion, the patch 
 ran up his blanket. Presently a blue snake appeared; 
 then another, parallel to it. "Is there life in the moon?" 
 "Of course." "But I thought it was uninhabited." "Not 
 by Time, Death, Judgment, and the smaller snakes."' 
 "Smaller snakes!" said Leonard indignantly and aloud. 
 
322 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "What a notion!" By a rending effort of the will he woke 
 the rest of the room up. Jacky, the bed, their food, theii 
 clothes on the chair, gradually entered his consciousness, 
 and the horror vanished outwards, like a ring that is 
 spreading through water. 
 
 "I say, Jacky, I'm going out for a bit." 
 
 She wa^ breathing regularly. The patch of light fell 
 clear of the striped blanket, and began to cover the 
 shawl that lay over her feet. Why had he been afraid? 
 He went to the window, and saw that the moon was 
 descending through a clear sky. He saw her volcanoes, 
 and the bright expanses that a gracious error has named 
 seas. They paled, for the sun, who had lit them up, was 
 coming to light the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea of Tran- 
 quillity, Ocean of the Lunar Storms, merged into one 
 lucent drop, itself to slip into the sempiternal dawn 
 And he had been afraid of the mooni 
 
 He dressed among the contending lights, and went 
 through his moiiey. It was running low again, but 
 enough for a return ticket to Hilton. As it clinked, Jacky 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 "Hullo, Len! What ho, LenI" 
 
 "What ho, Jacky! See you again later." 
 
 She turned over and slept. 
 
 The house was unlocked, their landlord being a sales- 
 man at Covent Garden. Leonard passed out and made 
 his way down to the station. The train, though it did 
 not start for an hour, was already drawn up at the end 
 of the platform, and he lay down in it and slept. With 
 the first jolt he was in daylight; they had left the gate- 
 ways of King's Cross, and were under blue sky. Tun- 
 nels followed, and after each the sky grew bluer, and 
 from the embankment at Finsbuiy Park he had his first 
 sight of the sun. It rolled along behind the eastern 
 smokes— a wheel, whose fellow was the descending 
 moon— and as yet it seemed the servant of the blue sky, 
 not its lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it was 
 day. To the left fell the shadow of the embankment 
 and its arches; to the right Leonard saw up into the 
 
Howards End 323 
 
 Tewin Woods and towards the church, with its wild 
 legend of immortality. Six forest trees— that is a fact- 
 grow out of one of the graves in Tewin churchyard. The 
 grave's occupant— that is the legend— is an atheist, who 
 declared that if God existed, six forest trees would grow 
 out of her grave. These things in Hertfordshire; and 
 farther afield lay the house of a hermit— Mrs. Wilcox 
 had known him— who barred himself up, and wrote 
 prophecies, and gave all he had to the poor. While, 
 powdered in between, were the villas of business men, 
 who saw life more steadily, though with the steadiness 
 of the half-closed eye. Over all the sun was streaming, 
 to all the birds were singing, to all the primroses were 
 yellow, and the speedwell blue, and the country, how- 
 ever they interpreted her, was uttering her cry of "now." 
 She did not free Leonard yet, and the knife plunged 
 deeper into his heart as the train drew up at Hilton. 
 But remorse had become beautiful. 
 
 Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. 
 Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of 
 it into the country. Here men had been up since dawn. 
 Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by 
 the movements of the crops and the sun. That they 
 were men of the finest type only the sentimentalist can 
 declare. But they kept to the life of daylight. They are 
 England's hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch 
 of tiie sun, until such time as the nation sees fit to take 
 it up. Half clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can 
 still throw back to a nobler stock, and breed yeomen. 
 
 At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was an- 
 other type whom Nature favours— the Imperial. 
 Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the earth. 
 It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; 
 strong is the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeo- 
 man, who carries his country's virtue overseas. But the 
 Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He is a de- 
 stroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, and 
 though his ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth that 
 he inherits will be grey. 
 
324 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 To Leonard, intent on his private sin, theie came the 
 conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not 
 the optimism which he had been taught at school. 
 Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins 
 stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the 
 superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from 
 his sonow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death 
 saves him— that is the best account of it that has yet 
 been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that 
 is great in us; and strengthen the wings of love. They 
 can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they are 
 not love's servants. But they can beckon, and the 
 knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. 
 
 As he approached the house, all thought stopped. 
 Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind. 
 He was terrified but happy, ashamed but had done no 
 sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have 
 done wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and* 
 he felt rather on a supreme adventure. 
 
 He entered a garden, steadied himself against a 
 motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and 
 entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a 
 room to the left he heard voices, Margaret's amongst 
 them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom 
 he had never seen said: "Oh, is he there? I am not sur- 
 prised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." 
 
 "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard. "I have done wrong." 
 
 The man took him by the collar and cried: "Bring 
 me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very 
 bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, 
 but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Noth- 
 ing had sense. 
 
 "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all 
 through kept very calm. "He's shamming. Of course I 
 only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." 
 
 "Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret 
 obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the 
 gravel; Helen poured water over him. 
 
 "That's enough," said Charles. 
 
Howards End 
 
 325 
 
 "Yes, murder's enough," said Mis^ Avery, coming oul 
 of the house with the sword. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first 
 train home, but had no inkling of the newest develop 
 ment until late at night. Then his father, who had dined 
 alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for 
 Margaret. 
 
 "I don't know where she is, Pater," said Charles. 
 "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." 
 
 "Tell me when she comes in." 
 
 Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and 
 Charles visited his father again, to receive further in- 
 structions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. 
 
 "I'll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can 
 hardly be coming. Isn't she stopping with her sister at 
 the hotel?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully— "perhaps." 
 
 "Can I do anything for you, sir?" 
 
 "Not tonight, my boy." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes 
 and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than 
 he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and 
 strong man' in one. Though his wife had proved 
 unstable, his children were left to him. 
 
 After midnight he tapped on Charles's door. "I x:an't 
 sleep," he said. "I had better have a talk with you and 
 get it over." 
 
 He complained of the heat. Charles took him out 
 into the garden, and they paced up and down in their 
 dressing-gowns. Charl,es became very quiet as the story 
 unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as 
 bad as her sister. 
 
 "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. 
 
326 E. M. FOKSTER 
 
 Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. 
 Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue with- 
 out comment. I am morally certain that she is with her 
 sister at Howards End. The house is mine— and, 
 Charles, it will be yours— and when I say that no on^ 
 is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I 
 won't have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my 
 mind, this question is connected with something far 
 greater, the rights of property itself." 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said Charles. 
 
 Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son's, but somehow 
 liked him less as he told him more. "I don't want you to 
 conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature 
 of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would 
 not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the un- 
 derstanding that they clear out of the house at once. 
 Do you see? That is a sine qua non." 
 
 "Then at eight- tomorrow I may go up in the car?" 
 
 "Eight or earlier. Say that you' are acting as my repre- 
 sentative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." 
 
 On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard 
 dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he 
 had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His 
 stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery 
 had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the 
 sword. On his way through the village he informed the 
 police, who thanked him and said there must be an in- 
 quest. He found his father in the garden shading his 
 eyes from the sun. 
 
 "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. 
 "They were there, and they had the man up there witii 
 them too." 
 
 "What— what man?" 
 
 "I told you last night. His name was Bast." 
 
 "My God, is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your 
 mother's house! Charles, in your mother's house!" 
 
 "I know. Pater, That was what I felt. As a matter of 
 fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was 
 
Howards End 327 
 
 in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I 
 could show him what I thought of him he went off. The 
 police are seeing about it at this moment." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox Ustened attentively. 
 
 "I got up there— oh, it couldn't have been more than 
 halt past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire 
 for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the draw- 
 ing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, 
 though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, 
 and Mrs. Wilcox said: 'Oh yes, I see; yes,' in that way 
 of hers." 
 
 "Nothing else?" 
 
 "I promised to tell you, 'with her love,' that she was 
 going to Germany with her sister this evening. That was 
 all we had time for." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. 
 
 "Because by then I suppose the man got tired of 
 hiding, for suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his 
 name. I recognized it, and I went for him in the hall. 
 Was I right. Pater? I thought things were going a little 
 too far." 
 
 "Right, my dear boy? I don't know. But you would 
 have been no son of mine if you hadn't. Then did he 
 just— just— crumple up as you said?" He shrunk from 
 the simple word. 
 
 "He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down 
 over him. So I merely put the sword down and carried 
 him into the garden. We all thought he was shamming. 
 However, he's dead right enough. Awful business!" 
 
 "Sword?" cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. 
 "What sword? Whose sword?" 
 
 "A sword of theirs." 
 
 "What were you doing with it?" 
 
 "Well, didn't you see. Pater, I had to snatch up the 
 first thing handy. I hadn't a riding-whip or stick. I 
 caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the 
 flat of their old German sword." 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
p;28 E. M. FOKSTER 
 
 "He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell," 
 said Charles, with a sigh. It was no fun doing eiiands 
 for his father, who was never quite satisfied. 
 
 "But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you're 
 sure?" 
 
 "That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than 
 enough at the inquest on such unsavoury topics." 
 
 They went into breakfast. Charles had a racking head- 
 ache, consequent on motoring before food. He was also 
 anxious aboiit the future, reflecting that the police must 
 detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and ferret 
 the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged to leave 
 Hilton. One could not afEord to live near the scene of a 
 scandal— it was not fair on one's wife. His comfort was 
 that the pater's eyes were opened at last. There would 
 be a horrible smash-up, and probably a separation from 
 Margaret; then they would all start again, more as they 
 had been in his mother's time. 
 
 "I think I'll go round to the police-station," said his 
 father when breakfast was over. 
 
 "What for?" cried Dolly, who had still not been 
 "told." 
 
 "Very well, sir. Which car will you have?" 
 
 "I think I'H walk." 
 
 "It's a good half-mile," said Charles, stepping into 
 the garden. "The sun's very hot for April. Shan't I 
 take you up, and then, perhaps, a little spin round ly 
 Tewin?" 
 
 "You go on as if I didn't know my own mind," said 
 Mr. Wilcox fretfully. Charles hardened his mouth. 'Tou 
 young fellows' one idea is to get into a motor. I tell you, 
 I want to walk: I'm very fond of walking." 
 
 "Oh, all right; I'm about the house if you want me 
 for anything. I thought of not going up to the oflGce 
 today, if that is your wish." 
 
 "It is, indeed, my boy," said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a 
 hand on his sleeve. 
 
 Charles did not like it; he was uneaSy about his fa- 
 ther, who did not seetu himself this morning. There was 
 
Howards End 329 
 
 a petulant touch about him— more like a woman. Could 
 it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not 
 lacking in aifection; they had it royally, but they did not 
 know how to use it. It was the talent in the napkin, 
 and, for a warm-hearted man, Charles had conveyed 
 very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling up the 
 road, he had a vague regret— a wish that something had 
 been different somewhere— a wish (though he did not 
 express it thus) that he had been taught to say "I" in 
 his youth. He meant to make up for Margaret's defec- 
 tion, but knew that his father had been very happy" with 
 her until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dis- 
 honest trick, no doubt— but how? 
 
 Mr, Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. 
 There was to be an inquest on Leonard's body tomor- 
 row, and the police required his son to attend. 
 
 "I expected that," said Charles. "I shall naturally be 
 the most important witness there." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 Out of the turmoil and horror that had beguri with 
 Aunt Juley's illness and was not even to end with Leon- 
 ard's death, it seemed impossible to Margaret that 
 healthy life should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a 
 logical, yet senseless, train. People lost their humanity, 
 and took values as arbitrary as those in a pack of play- 
 ing-cards. It was natural that Henry should do this and 
 cause Helen to do that, and then think her wrong for 
 doing it; natural that she herself should think him 
 wrong; natural that Leonard should want to know how 
 Helen was, and come, and Charles be angry with him 
 for coming— natural, but unreal. In this jangle of causes 
 and effects, what had become of their true selves? Here 
 Leonard lay dead in the garden, from natural causes; 
 yet life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky, hfe was 
 
33° E. M. FORSTER 
 
 a house, death a wisp of hay, a flowei, a tower, hfe and 
 death were anything and everything, except this ordered 
 insanity, where the king takes the queen, and the ace 
 the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and adventure be- 
 hind, such as the man at her feet had yearned for; there 
 was hope this side of the grave; there were truer rela- 
 tionships beyond the limits that fetter us now. As a 
 prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, from 
 the turmoil and honor of those days, caught glimpses 
 of the diviner wheels. 
 
 And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm 
 for the child's sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but murmur- 
 ing tenderly: "No one ever told the lad he'll have a 
 child"— they also reminded her that horror is not the 
 end. To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not 
 know, but there seemed great chance that a child would 
 be bom into the world, to take the great chances of 
 beauty and adventure that the world ofEers. She moved 
 through the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi, crimson- 
 eyed and white. There was nothing else to be done; the. 
 time for telegrams and anger was over, and it seemed 
 wisest that the hands of Leonard should be folded on 
 his breast and be filled with flowers. Here was the 
 father; leave it at that. Let Squalor be turned into Trag- 
 edy, whose eyes are the stars, and whose hands hold the 
 sunset and the dawn. 
 
 And even the influx of officials, even the return of 
 the doctor, vulgar and acute, could not shake her belief 
 in the eternity of beauty. Science explained people, but 
 could not understand them. After long centuries among 
 the bones and muscles it might be advancing to knowl- 
 edge of the nerves, but this would never give un- 
 derstanding. One could open the heart to Mr. Mans- 
 bridge and his sort without discovering its secrets to 
 them, for they wanted everything down in black and 
 white, "and black and white was exactly what they were 
 left with. 
 
 They questioned her closely about Charles. She never 
 suspected why. Death had come, and the doctor agreed 
 
Howards End 331 
 
 that it was due to heart disease. They asked to see her 
 father's sword. She explained that Charles's, anger was 
 natural, but mistaken. Miserable questions about Leon- 
 ard followed, all of which she answered unfalteringly. 
 Then back to Charles a^in. "No doubt Mr. Wilcox 
 may have induced death," she said; "but if it wasn't one 
 thing, it would have been another, as you yourselves 
 know." At last they thanked her, and took the sword 
 and the body down to Hilton. She began to pick up the 
 books from the floor. 
 
 Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place for 
 her, since she had to wait for the inquest. Though, as if 
 things were not hard enough, Madge and her husband 
 had raised trouble; they did not see why they should re- 
 ceive the offscourings of Howards End. And, of course, 
 they were right. The whole world was going to be right, 
 and amply avenge any brave talk against the conven- 
 tions. "Nothing matters," the Schlegels had said in the 
 past, "except one's self-respect and that of one's 
 friends." When the time came, other things mattered 
 terribly. However, Madge had yielded, and Helen was 
 assured of peace for one day and night, and tomorrow 
 she would return to Germany. 
 
 As for herself, she determined to go too. No message 
 came from Henry; perhaps he expected her to apologize. 
 Now that she had time to think over her own tragedy, 
 she was unrepentant. She neither forgave him for his 
 behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech to him 
 seemed perfect. She would not have altered a word. It 
 had to be uttered once in a hfe, to adjust the lopsided- 
 ness of the world. It was spoken not only to her hus- 
 band, but to thousands of- men like him— a protest 
 against the inner darkness in high places that comes 
 with a commercial age. Though he would build up his 
 life without hers, she could not apologize. He had re- 
 fused to connect, on the clearest issue that can be laid 
 before a man, and their love must take the con- 
 sequences. 
 
 No, there was nothing more to be done. They had 
 
332 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 tried not to go over the precipice, but perhaps the fall 
 was inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the 
 future was certainly inevitable: cause and effect would 
 go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none 
 that she could imagine. At such moments the soul re- 
 tires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper 
 stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the 
 world's glory not diminished, but different in kind to 
 what she has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial 
 things are blurred. Margaret had been tending-this way 
 all the winter. Leonard's death brought her to the goal. 
 Alas! that Henry should fade away as reality emerged, 
 and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped 
 with his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams. 
 
 With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would 
 soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and 
 what did he or the world care if he was rotten at the 
 core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times 
 a little sentimental about women, but emptying his 
 glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep 
 Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from busi- 
 ness reluctantly and at an advanced age. He would set- 
 tle down— though she could not realize this. In her eyes 
 Henry was always moving, and causing others to move, 
 until the ends of the earth met. But in time he must get 
 too tired to move, and settle down. What next? The in- 
 evitable word. The release of the soul to its appropriate 
 Heaven. 
 
 Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immor- 
 tality for herself. An eternal future had always seemed 
 natural to her. And Henry believed in it for himself. 
 Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather end- 
 less levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had 
 censured teaches? And his level, whether higher or 
 lower, could it possibly be the same as hers? 
 
 Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. 
 He sent up Crane in the motdr. Other servants passed 
 like water, but the chauffeur remained, though impei- 
 
Howards End 333 
 
 tinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he 
 knew it. 
 
 "Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked. 
 
 "He didn't say, madam." 
 
 "You haven't any note for me?" 
 
 "He didn't say, madam." 
 
 After a moment's thought she locked up Howards 
 End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth 
 that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire 
 that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals 
 in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew 
 the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now. 
 
 She was determined not to spare him, for nothing 
 new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her 
 mood might never have altered from yesterday eve- 
 ning. He was standing a little outside Charles's gate, 
 and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got put he 
 said hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you out- 
 side." 
 
 "It will be more appropriate in the road, I am 
 afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my message?" 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell 
 you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our 
 talk last night was more important than you have re- 
 alized. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you." 
 
 "I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. 
 "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish 
 to sit down." 
 
 "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." 
 
 The Great North Road should have been bordered 
 all its length with glebe. Henry's kind had filched most 
 of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were 
 the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that 
 they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. 
 
 "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed 
 them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, 
 and he did not pick them up. 
 
534 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 "I have something to tell you," he said gently. 
 
 She knew this supeificial gentleness, this confession 
 of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her ad- 
 miration of the male. 
 
 "I don't want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is 
 going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We 
 must manage to build up something, she and I and her 
 child." 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too 
 ill." 
 
 "After the inquest?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Have you realized what the verdict at the inquest 
 will be?" 
 
 "Yes, heart disease." 
 
 "No, my dear; manslaughter." 
 
 Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill 
 beneath her moved as if it was alive. 
 
 "Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may 
 go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don't know what to 
 do— what to do. I'm broken — I'm ended." 
 
 No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that 
 to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the 
 sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the 
 next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought 
 in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all 
 reason that he should be punished, but the law, being 
 made in his image, sentenced him to three years' im- 
 prisonment. Then Henry's fortress pve way. He could 
 bear no one hht his wife, he shambled up to Margaret 
 afterwards and asked her to do what she could with 
 him. She did what seemed easiest— she took him down 
 to recruit at Howards End. 
 
Howards End 
 
 335 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 Tom's father was cutting the big meadow. He passed 
 again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours 
 of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred 
 centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. 
 
 "I haven't any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose 
 baby may, Meg?" 
 
 Margaret put down her work and regarded them ab- 
 sently. "What was that?" she aslced. 
 
 "Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to 
 play with hay?" 
 
 "I haven't the least notion," answered Margaret, and 
 took up her work again. 
 
 "Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on 
 his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not 
 to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two 
 or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as 
 all that?" 
 
 Tom held out his arms. 
 
 "That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 "He is fond of baby. That's why he does it!" was 
 Helen's answer. "They're going to be lifelong friends." 
 
 "Starting at the ages of six and one?" 
 
 "Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom." 
 
 "It may be a greater thing for baby." 
 
 Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still 
 stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred 
 to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red pop- 
 pies were reopening in the garden. July would follow 
 with the little red poppies among the wheat, August 
 with the cutting of the wheat. These little events would 
 become part of her year after year. Every summer she 
 would fear lest the well should give out, every winter 
 
326 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might 
 blow the wych-elm down and bring the end of all things, 
 and so she could not read or talk during a westerly gale. 
 The air was tranquil now. She and her sister were sitting 
 on the remains of Evie's rockery, where the lawn merged 
 into the field. 
 
 "What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can 
 they be doing inside?" Margaret, who was growing less 
 talkative, made no answer. TTie noise of the cutter came 
 intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them 
 a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes. 
 
 "I wish Henry was out to enjoy this," said Helen. 
 "This lovely weather and to be shut up in the house! 
 It's very hard." 
 
 "It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay-fever is his 
 chief objection against living here, but he thinks it worth 
 while." 
 
 "Meg, is or isn't he ill? I can't make out." - 
 ■ "Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all 
 his life, and noticed nothing. Those are the people who 
 collapse when they do notice a thing." 
 
 "I suppose he wofries dreadfully about his part of the 
 tangle." 
 
 "Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, 
 too, today. Still, he wanted them all to come. It has to 
 be." 
 
 "Why does he want them?" 
 
 Margaret did not answer. 
 
 "Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry." 
 
 "You'd be odd if you didn't," said Margaret. 
 
 "lusen'tto." 
 
 "Usen't!" She lowered her eyes a moment to the black 
 abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always excepting 
 Leonard and Charles. They were building up a new life, 
 obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard was dead; 
 Charles had two years more in prison. One usen't al- 
 ways to see clearly before that time. It was different 
 now. 
 
 "I like Henry because he does worry." 
 
Howards End 337 
 
 "And he likes you because you don't." 
 
 Helen sighed. She seemed humihated, and buried her 
 face in her hands. After a time she said: "Above love," 
 a transition less abrupt than it appeared. 
 
 Margaret never stopped working. 
 
 "I mean a woman's love for a man. I supposed I 
 should hang my life on to that once, and was driven 
 up and down and about as if something was worrying 
 through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem 
 cured. That Herr Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writ- 
 ing about, must be a noble character, but he doesn't see 
 that I shall never marry him or anyone. It isn't shame 
 or mistrust of myself. I simply couldn't. I'm ended. I 
 used to be so dreamy about a man's love as a girl, and 
 think that, for good or evil, love must be the great thing. 
 But it hasn't been; it has been itself a dream. Do you 
 agree?" 
 
 "I do not agree. I do not." 
 
 "I ought to remember Leonard as my lover," said 
 Helen, stepping down into the field. "I tempted him 
 and killed him, and it is surely the least I can do. I would 
 like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on such an 
 afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no good pretend- 
 ing. I am forgetting him." Her eyes filled with tears. 
 "How nothing seems to match— how, my darling, my 
 precious—" She broke off. "Tommy!" 
 
 "Yes, please?" 
 
 "Baby's not to try and stand.— There's something 
 wanting in me. I see you loving Henry, and understand- 
 ing him better daily, and I know that death wouldn't 
 part you in the least. But I— Is it some awful, appalling, 
 criminal defect?" 
 
 Margaret silenced her. She said: "It is only that peo- 
 ple are far more different than is pretended. All over 
 the world men and women are worrying because they 
 cannot develop as they are supposed to develop. Here 
 and there they have the matter out, and it comforts 
 them. Don't fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you 
 have; love your child. I do not love children. I am thank- 
 
338 E. M. FORSTER 
 
 ful to have none. I can play with their beauty and chaim, 
 but that is all— nothing leal, not one scrap of what theie 
 ought to be. And others— others go farther still, and 
 move outside humanity altogether. A place, as well as 
 a person, may catch the glow. Don't you see that all 
 this leads to comfort in the end? It is patt of the 
 battle against sameness. Differences— eternal differences, 
 planted by God in a single family, so that there may al- 
 ways be colour; sorrow perhaps, but colour in the daily 
 grey. Then I can't have you worrying about Leonard. 
 Don't drag in the personal when it will not come. For- 
 get him." 
 
 "Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?" 
 
 "Perhaps an adventure." 
 
 "Is that enough?" 
 
 "Not for us. But for him." 
 
 Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the 
 sonel, and the red and white and yellow clover, and the 
 quaker grass, and the daisies, and the bents that com- 
 posed it. She raised it to her face. 
 
 "Is it sweetening yet?" asked Margaret. 
 
 "No, only withered." 
 
 "It will sweeten tomorrow." 
 
 Helen smiled. "Oh, Meg, you are a person," she said. 
 "Think of the racket and torture this time last year. But 
 now I couldn't stop unhappy if I tried. What a change 
 —and all through you!" 
 
 "Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry leamt 
 to understand one another and to forgive, all through 
 the autumn and the winter." 
 
 "Yes, but who settled us down?" 
 
 Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and 
 she took off her pince-nez to watch it. 
 
 "You!" cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, though 
 ypu're too stupid to see. Living here was your plan—I 
 wanted you; he wanted you; and everyone said it was 
 impossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives with- 
 out you, Meg— I and baby with Monica, revolting by 
 theory, he handed about from Dolly to Evie. But you 
 
Howards End 339 
 
 picked up the pieces, and made us a home. Can't it 
 strike you— even for a moment—that your life has been 
 heroic? Can't you remember the two months after 
 Charles's arrest, when you began to act, and did all?" 
 
 'Tou were both ill at the time," said Margaret. "I did 
 the obvious things. I had two invalids to nurse. Here 
 was a house, ready furnished and empty. It was obvious. 
 I didn't know myself it would turn into a permanent 
 home. No doubt I have done a little towards straighten- 
 ing the tangle, but things that I can't phrase have 
 helped me." 
 
 "I hope it will be permanent," said Helen, drifting 
 away to other thoughts. 
 
 "I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards 
 End peculiarly our own." 
 
 "All the same, London's creeping." 
 
 She pointed over the meadow— over eight or nine 
 meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust. 
 
 "You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," 
 she continued. "I can see it from the Purbeck Downs. 
 And London is only part of something else, I'm afraid. 
 Life's going to be melted down, all over the world." 
 
 Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards 
 End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, 
 were all survivals, and the melting-pot was being pre- 
 pared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. 
 One's hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they 
 possibly tiie earth beating time? 
 
 "Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go 
 strong for ever," she said. "This craze for motion has 
 only set in during the last hundred years. It may be 
 followed by a civilization that won't be a movement, 
 because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are 
 against it now, but I can't help hoping, and very early 
 in the monling in the garden I feel that our house is 
 the future as well as the past." 
 
 They turned and looked at it. Their own memories 
 coloured it now, for Helen's child had been born in 
 the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said: "Oh, 
 
aAO ^' M. FORSTER 
 
 take care—!" for something moved behind the window 
 of the hall, and the door opened. 
 
 "The conclave's breaking at last. I'll go." 
 
 It was Paul. 
 
 Helen retreated with the children far into the field. 
 Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter 
 a man with a heavy black moustache. , 
 
 "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. 
 She took her work and followed him. 
 
 "We have been talking business," he continued, "but 
 I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." 
 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
 Clumsy of movement— for he had spent all his life 
 in the saddle— Paul drove his foot against the paint of 
 the front ^oor. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoy- 
 ance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped 
 in the hall to take Dolly's boa and gloves out of a vase. 
 
 Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the 
 diniQg-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather 
 ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat 
 near the window. The room was a little dark and air- 
 less; they were obliged to keep it like this until the cart- 
 ing of the hay. Margaret joined the family without 
 speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and_ 
 she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse 
 to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock 
 struck six. 
 
 "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary 
 voice. He used the old phrases, but ^heir efiEect was 
 unexpected and shadowy. 'Because I don't want you all 
 coining here later on and complaining that I have been 
 unfair." 
 
 "It's apparently got to suit us," said Paul. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, 
 and I will leave the house to you instead." 
 
 Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at 
 his arm. "As I've given up the outdoor life that suited 
 me, and ,1 have come home to look after the business. 
 
Howards End 341 
 
 it's no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It's 
 not really the country, and it's not the town." 
 
 "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" 
 
 "Of course, Father." 
 
 "And you, Dolly?" 
 
 Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could 
 wither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. 
 "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys but last time 
 I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live 
 in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to 
 change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wil- 
 cox just suits Charles and me, and I can't think of any 
 other name." 
 
 There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously 
 round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul 
 continued to scratch his arm. 
 
 "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," 
 said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and 
 after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." 
 
 Margaret did not answer. "There was something un- 
 canny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to 
 conquer anyone, had charged straight through these 
 Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. 
 
 "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said 
 Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have 
 had will be divided among you. I am also giving you 
 a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be inde- 
 pendent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving 
 away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish 
 her income by half during the next ten years; she in- 
 tends when she dies tqjeave the house to her— to her 
 nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does every- 
 one understand?" 
 
 Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, 
 and a very little shook him out ot the Englishman. Feel- 
 ing manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, 
 come! I think we might have had the whole establish- 
 ment, piccaninnies included." 
 
rA2 E. M. FORSTER^ 
 
 Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don't, Paul. You promised 
 you'd take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose 
 and prepared to take her leave. 
 
 Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; 
 "don't you worry about me." 
 
 "Good-bye, Dad." 
 
 Then it was Dolly's turn. Anxious to contribute, she 
 laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. 
 It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left 
 Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." 
 
 From Evie came a sharply drawn breath. "Good-bye," 
 she said to Margaret, and kissed her. 
 
 And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a 
 dying sea. 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye, Dolly." 
 
 "So long. Father." 
 
 "Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself." 
 
 "Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she re- 
 turned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. 
 rie was pitiably tired. But Dolly's remark had interested 
 her. At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what 
 was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards 
 End?" 
 
 Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a 
 very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind 
 to her, she wanted to make you some return, and, not 
 being herself at the time, scribbled 'Howards End' on 
 a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was 
 clearly fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my 
 Margaret would be to me in the future." 
 
 Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its 
 inmost recesses, and she shivered. 
 
 "I didn't do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down. 
 
 "You didn't, darling. Nothing has been done wrong." 
 
 From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at 
 last! " exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a smile. 
 
Howards End 343 
 
 Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by one hand 
 and canying her baby on the other. There were shouts 
 of infectious joy. 
 
 "The field's cut!" Helen cried excitedly— "the big 
 meadow! We've seen to the very end, and it'll be such 
 a crop of hay as never!" 
 
 Weybridge, 1908-1910 
 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR 
 
 E (dward) M (organ) Forster was bom in 
 i8yp of mixed English and Welsh ancestry. 
 Having attended Tonbridge School as a boy, 
 he went on to Kin^s College, Cambridge, with 
 which his name was intimately connected in 
 later years, and of which he was for a time a 
 "Fellow. His'writing, which placed him among 
 the foremost novelists and critics of the twen- 
 tieth century, is remarkable for its constant at- 
 tention to moral, ethical, and human values, 
 and also for its convincing evocations not only 
 of England, but also of such scenes of his trav- 
 els as Italy, Egypt, and India. Mr. Forster died 
 in ip'jo. 
 
VINTAGE BELLES-LETTRES 
 
 V-418 AUDEN, W. H. / The Dyer's Hand 
 
 V-887 AUDEN, W. H. / Forewords and Afterwords 
 
 V-271 BEDIER, JOSEPH / Tristan and Iseult 
 
 V-512 BLOCH, MARC / The Historian's Craft 
 
 V-S72 BRIDGEHAMPTON / Bridgehampton Worl<s & Days 
 
 V-161 BROWN, NORMAN O. / Closing Time 
 
 V-544 BROWN, NORMAN O. / Hermes the Thief 
 
 V-419 BROWN, NORMAN O. / Love's Body 
 
 V-75 CAMUS, ALBERT / The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays 
 
 V-30 CAMUS, ALBERT / The Rebel 
 
 V-608 CARR, JOHN DICKSON / The Life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: 
 
 The Man Who Was Sherlock Holmes 
 V-407 HARDWICK, ELIZABETH / Seduction and Betrayal: Women 
 
 and Literature 
 V-244 HERRIGEL, EUGEN / The Method of Zen 
 V-663 HERRIGEL, EUGEN / Zen in the Art of Archery 
 V-201 HUGHES, H. STUART / Consciousness & Society 
 V-235 KAPLAN, ABRAHAM / New World of Philosophy 
 V-337 KAUFMANN, WALTER (trans.) AND FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE / 
 
 Beyond Good and Evil 
 V-369 KAUFMANN, WALTER (trans.) AND FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE / 
 
 The Birth of Tragedy and the Case of Wagner 
 V-985 KAUFMANN, WALTER (trans.) AND FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE / 
 
 The Gay Science 
 V-401 KAUFMANN, WALTER (trans.) AND FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE / 
 
 On the Genealogy of Morals and Ecce Homo 
 V-437 KAUFMANN, WALTER (trans.) AND FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE / 
 
 The Will to Power 
 V-995 KOTT, JAN / The Eating of the Gods: An Interpretation ot 
 
 Greek Tragedy 
 V-685 LESSING, DORIS / A Small Personal Voice: Essays, Reviews, 
 
 Interviews 
 V-329 LINDBERGH, ANNE MORROW / Gift from the Sea 
 V-479 MALRAUX, ANDRE / Man's Fate 
 V-406 MARCUS, STEVEN / Engels, Manchester and the Working 
 
 Class 
 V-58 MENCKEN, H. L. / Prejudices (Selected by James T. Farrell) 
 V-25 MENCKEN, H. L. / The Vintage Mencken (Gathered by Ali- 
 
 stair Cooke) 
 V-151 MOFFAT, MARY JANE AND CHARLOTTE PAINTER (eds.) / 
 
 Revelations: Diaries of Women 
 V-926 MUSTARD, HELEN (trans.) / Heinrich Heine: Selected Works 
 V-337 NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH AND WALTER KAUFMANN (trans.) / 
 
 Beyond Good and Evil 
 V-369 NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH AND WALTER KAUFMANN (trans.) / 
 
 The Birth of Tragedy and the Case of Wagner 
 V-985 NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH AND WALTER KAUFMANN (trans.) / 
 
 The Gay Science 
 V-401 "NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH AND WALTER KAUFMANN (trans.) / 
 
 On the Genealogy of Morals and Ecce Homo 
 
V-437 NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH AND WALTER KAUFMANN (trans.) / 
 
 The Will to Power 
 V-672 OUSPENSKY, P. D. / The Fourth Way 
 V-524 OUSPENSKY, P. D. / A New Model of the Universe 
 V-943 OUSPENSKY, P. D. / The Psychology of Man's Possible Evolu- 
 tion 
 V-639 OUSPENSKY, P. D. / Tertium Organum 
 V-1S1 PAINTER, CHARLOTTE AND MARY JANE MOFFAT (eds.) / 
 
 Revelations: Diaries of Women 
 V-986 PAUL, DAVID (trans.) / Poison & Vision: Poems & Prose of 
 
 Baudelaire, Mailarme and Rimbaud 
 V-598 PROUST, MARCEL / The Captive 
 V-597 PROUST, MARCEL / Cities of the Plain 
 V-596 PROUST, MARCEL / The Guermantes Way 
 V-594 PROUST, MARCEL / Swann's Way 
 V-599 PROUST, MARCEL / The Sweet Cheat Gone 
 V-595 ' PROUST, MARCEL / Within a Budding Grove 
 V-899 SAMUEL, MAURICE / The World of Sholom Aleichem 
 V-4'15 SHATTUCK, ROGER / The Banquet Years (revised) 
 V-278 STEVENS, WALLACE / The Necessary Angel 
 V-761 WATTS, ALAN / Behold the Spirit 
 
 V-923 WATTS, ALAN / Beyond Theology: The Art of Godmanship 
 V-853 WATTS, ALAN / The Book: the Taboo Against Knowing Who 
 
 You Are 
 V-999 WATTS, ALAN / Cloud-Hidden, Whereabouts Unknown: A 
 
 Mountain Journal 
 V-665 WATTS, ALAN / Does it Matter? 
 V-951 WATTS, ALAN / In My Own Way 
 V-299 WATTS, ALAN / The Joyous Cosmology 
 V-592 WATTS, ALAN / Nature, Man and Woman 
 V-609 WATTS, ALAN / Psychotherapy East & West 
 V-835 WATTS, ALAN / The Supreme Identity 
 V-298 WATTS, ALAN / The Way of Zen 
 V-870 WIESEL, ELIE ) Souls on Fire 
 
LITERATU 
 
 COVER DESIGN BY E. MCKNIGHT KAUFFER 
 
 1 
 
 "Howards End is a novel about England's fate. It is a story of the 
 class war. The war is latent but actual— so actual indeed that a 
 sword is literally drawn and a man is really killed. England her- 
 self appears in the novel in palpable form, for the story moves by 
 symbols and not only all its characters but also an elm, a mar- 
 riage, a symphony, and a scholar's library stand for things beyond 
 themselves. The symbol for England is the house whose name 
 gives the title to the book. Like the plots of so many English nov- 
 els, the plot of Howards End is about the rights of property, about 
 a destroyed will-and-testament and rightful and wrongful heirs. 
 It asks the question, 'Who shall inherit England?' 
 
 "Howards End is undoubtedly Forster's masterpiece; it devel 
 to their full the themes and attitudes of the early books and thro^ 
 back upon them a new and enhancing light. It justifies these atti 
 tudes by connecting them with a more mature sense of resporisi 
 •'^^»*y-" 394-700074