الفصل الفصل 3 · Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. Her nieces were

. Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. Her nieces were

independent young women, and it was not often that she was able to help

them. Emily’s daughters had never been quite like other girls. They had

been left motherless when Tibby was born, when Helen was five and

Margaret herself but thirteen. It was before the passing of the

Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill, so Mrs. Munt could without impropriety

offer to go and keep house at Wickham Place. But her brother-in-law,

who was peculiar and a German, had referred the question to Margaret,

who with the crudity of youth had answered, “No, they could manage much

better alone.” Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs.

Munt had repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no longer, had been

grateful and extremely nice, but the substance of her answer had been

the same. “I must not interfere a third time,” thought Mrs. Munt.

However, of course she did. She learnt, to her horror, that Margaret,

now of age, was taking her money out of the old safe investments and

putting it into Foreign Things, which always smash. Silence would have

been criminal. Her own fortune was invested in Home Rails, and most

ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her. “Then we should be

together, dear.” Margaret, out of politeness, invested a few hundreds

in the Nottingham and Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did

admirably and the Nottingham and Derby declined with the steady dignity

of which only Home Rails are capable, Mrs. Munt never ceased to

rejoice, and to say, “I did manage that, at all events. When the smash

comes poor Margaret will have a nest-egg to fall back upon.” This year

Helen came of age, and exactly the same thing happened in Helen’s case;

she also would shift her money out of Consols, but she, too, almost

without being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it to the Nottingham

and Derby Railway. So far so good, but in social matters their aunt had

accomplished nothing. Sooner or later the girls would enter on the

process known as throwing themselves away, and if they had delayed

hitherto, it was only that they might throw themselves more vehemently

in the future. They saw too many people at Wickham Place—unshaven

musicians, an actress even, German cousins (one knows what foreigners

are), acquaintances picked up at Continental hotels (one knows what

they are too). It was interesting, and down at Swanage no one

appreciated culture more than Mrs. Munt; but it was dangerous, and

disaster was bound to come. How right she was, and how lucky to be on

the spot when the disaster came!

The train sped northward, under innumerable tunnels. It was only an

hour’s journey, but Mrs. Munt had to raise and lower the window again

and again. She passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for a

moment, and entered the North Welwyn Tunnel, of tragic fame. She

traversed the immense viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and

the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks of politicians.

At times the Great North Road accompanied her, more suggestive of

infinity than any railway, awakening, after a nap of a hundred years,

to such life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars, and to such

culture as is implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills. To

history, to tragedy, to the past, to the future, Mrs. Munt remained

equally indifferent; hers but to concentrate on the end of her journey,

and to rescue poor Helen from this dreadful mess.

The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of the large villages

that are strung so frequently along the North Road, and that owe their

size to the traffic of coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near

London, it had not shared in the rural decay, and its long High Street

had budded out right and left into residential estates. For about a

mile a series of tiled and slated houses passed before Mrs. Munt’s

inattentive eyes, a series broken at one point by six Danish tumuli

that stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of soldiers.

Beyond these tumuli habitations thickened, and the train came to a

standstill in a tangle that was almost a town.

The station, like the scenery, like Helen’s letters, struck an

indeterminate note. Into which country will it lead, England or

Suburbia? It was new, it had island platforms and a subway, and the

superficial comfort exacted by business men. But it held hints of local

life, personal intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to discover.

“I want a house,” she confided to the ticket boy. “Its name is Howards

Lodge. Do you know where it is?”

“Mr. Wilcox!” the boy called.

A young man in front of them turned 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 brothers, she had the sense to say to him, “Excuse me asking,

but are you the younger Mr. Wilcox or the elder?”

“The younger. Can I do anything for you?”

“Oh, well”—she controlled herself with difficulty. “Really. Are you?

I—” She moved away from the ticket boy and lowered her voice. “I am

Miss Schlegel’s aunt. I ought to introduce myself, oughtn’t I? My name

is Mrs. Munt.”

She was conscious that he raised his cap and said quite coolly, “Oh,

rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with us. Did you want to see her?”

“Possibly—”

“I’ll call you a cab. No; wait a mo—” He thought. “Our motor’s here.

I’ll run you up in it.”

“That is very kind—”

“Not at all, if you’ll just wait till they bring out a parcel from the

office. This way.”

“My niece is not with you by any chance?”

“No; I came over with my father. He has gone on north in your train.

You’ll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. You’re coming up to lunch, I hope?”

“I should like to come _up_,” said Mrs. Munt, not committing herself to

nourishment until she had studied Helen’s lover a little more. He

seemed a gentleman, but had so rattled her round that her powers of

observation were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily. To a feminine

eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp depressions at the corners of

his mouth, nor in the rather box-like construction of his forehead. He

was dark, clean-shaven and seemed accustomed to command.

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

“In front if I may; then we can talk.”

“But excuse me one moment—I can’t think what they’re doing with that

parcel.” He strode into the booking-office and called with a new voice:

“Hi! hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel

for Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!” Emerging, he said in quieter

tones: “This station’s abominably 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 extraordinary. “Very good indeed,” she

repeated, adding: “It is just what I should have wished.”

“Very good of you to say so,” he replied, with a slight look of

surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped Mrs. Munt’s attention.

“I was just tooling my father over to catch the down train.”

“You see, we heard from Helen this morning.”

Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, and performing

other actions with which this story has no concern. The great car began

to rock, and the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang

agreeably up and down among the red cushions. “The mater will be very

glad to see you,” he mumbled. “Hi! I say. Parcel for Howards End. Bring

it out. Hi!”

A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry book

in the other. With the gathering whir of the motor these ejaculations

mingled: “Sign, must I? Why the—should I sign after all this bother?

Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time I report you to the

station-master. My time’s of value, though yours mayn’t be. Here”—here

being a tip.

“Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.”

“Not at all, Mr. Wilcox.”

“And do you object to going through the village? It is rather a longer

spin, but I have one or two commissions.”

“I should love going through the village. Naturally I am very anxious

to talk things over with you.”

As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was disobeying Margaret’s

instructions. Only disobeying them in the letter, surely. Margaret had

only warned her against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely

it was not “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 exceptional person—I am

sure you will let me say this, feeling towards her as you do—indeed,

all the Schlegels are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference,

but it was a great shock.”

They drew up opposite a draper’s. Without replying, he turned round in

his seat, and contemplated the cloud of dust that they had raised in

their passage through the village. It was settling again, but not all

into the road from which he had taken it. Some of it had percolated

through the open windows, some had whitened the roses and gooseberries

of the wayside gardens, while a certain proportion had entered the

lungs of the villagers. “I wonder when they’ll learn wisdom and tar the

roads,” was his comment. Then a man ran out of the draper’s with a roll

of oilcloth, and off they went again.

“Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor Tibby, so I am

here to represent her and to have a good talk.”

“I’m sorry to be so dense,” said the young man, again drawing up

outside a shop. “But I still haven’t quite understood.”

“Helen, Mr. Wilcox—my niece and you.”

He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, absolutely bewildered.

Horror smote her to the heart, for even she began to suspect that they

were at cross-purposes, and that she had commenced her mission by some

hideous blunder.

“Miss Schlegel and myself.” he asked, compressing his lips.

“I trust there has been no misunderstanding,” quavered Mrs. Munt. “Her

letter certainly read that way.”

“What way?”

“That you and she—” She paused, then drooped her eyelids.

“I think I catch your meaning,” he said stickily. “What an

extraordinary mistake!”

“Then you didn’t the least—” she stammered, getting blood-red in the

face, and wishing she had never been born.

“Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady.” There was a

moment’s silence, and then he caught his breath and exploded with, “Oh,

good God! Don’t tell me it’s some silliness of Paul’s.”

“But you are Paul.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why did you say so at the station?”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“I beg your pardon, you did.”

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

“Younger” may mean son as opposed to father, or second brother as

opposed to first. There is much to be said for either view, and later

on they said it. But they had other questions before them now.

“Do you mean to tell me that Paul—”

But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he was talking to a

porter, and, certain that he had deceived her at the station, she too

grew angry.

“Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your niece—”

Mrs. Munt—such is human nature—determined that she would champion the

lovers. She was not going to be bullied by a severe young man. “Yes,

they care for one another very much indeed,” she said. “I dare say they

will tell you about it by-and-by. We heard this morning.”

And Charles clenched his fist and cried, “The idiot, the idiot, the

little fool!”

Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. “If that is your

attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk.”

“I beg you will do no such thing. I’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 saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth.

“Right behind?”

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

“I warn you: Paul hasn’t a penny; it’s useless.”

“No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The warning is all the

other way. My niece has been very foolish, and I shall give her a good

scolding and take her back to London with me.”

“He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He couldn’t think of marrying

for years and when he does it must be a woman who can stand the

climate, and is in other ways—Why hasn’t he told us? Of course he’s

ashamed. He knows he’s been a fool. And so he has—a damned fool.”

She grew furious.

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

“If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark I’d box your ears.

You’re not fit to clean my niece’s boots, to sit in the same room with

her, and you dare—you actually dare—I decline to argue with such a

person.”

“All I know is, she’s spread the thing and he hasn’t, and my father’s

away and I—”

“And all that I know is—”

“Might I finish my sentence, please?”

“No.”

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

lane.

She screamed.

So they played the game of Capping Families, a round of which is always

played when love would unite two members of our race. But they played

it with unusual vigour, stating in so many words that Schlegels were

better than Wilcoxes, Wilcoxes better than Schlegels. They flung

decency aside. The man was young, the woman deeply stirred; in both a

vein of coarseness was latent. Their quarrel was no more surprising

than are most quarrels—inevitable at the time, incredible afterwards.

But it was more than usually futile. A few minutes, and they were

enlightened. The motor drew up at Howards End, and Helen, looking very

pale, ran out to meet her aunt.

“Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Margaret; I—I meant to

stop your coming. It isn’t—it’s over.”

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

“Aunt Juley dear, don’t. Don’t let them know I’ve been so silly. It

wasn’t anything. Do bear up for my sake.”

“Paul,” cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off.

“Don’t let them know. They are never to know.”

“Oh, my darling Helen—”

“Paul! Paul!”

A very young man came out of the house.

“Paul, is there any truth in this?”

“I didn’t—I don’t—”

“Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did or didn’t Miss

Schlegel—”

“Charles dear,” said a voice from the garden. “Charles, dear Charles,

one doesn’t ask plain questions. There aren’t such things.”

They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox.

She approached just as Helen’s letter had described her, trailing

noiselessly over the lawn, and there was actually a wisp of hay in her

hands. She seemed to belong not to the young people and their motor,

but to the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew that

she worshipped the past, and that the instinctive wisdom the past can

alone bestow had descended upon her—that wisdom to which we give the

clumsy name of aristocracy. High born she might not be. But assuredly

she cared about her ancestors, and let them help her. When she saw

Charles angry, Paul frightened, and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her

ancestors say, “Separate those human beings who will hurt each other

most. The rest can wait.” So she did not ask questions. Still less did

she pretend that nothing had happened, as a competent society hostess

would have done. She said, “Miss Schlegel, would you take your aunt up

to your room or to my room, whichever you think best. Paul, do find

Evie, and tell her lunch for six, but I’m not sure whether we shall all

be downstairs for it.” And when they had obeyed her, she turned to her

elder son, who still stood in the throbbing stinking car, and smiled at

him with tenderness, and without a word, turned away from him towards

her flowers.

“Mother,” he called, “are you aware that Paul has been playing the fool

again?”

“It’s all right, dear. They have broken off the engagement.”

“Engagement—!”

“They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that way,” said Mrs.

Wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose.