Chương Chương 33 · The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of unclouded happiness

. The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of unclouded happiness

that she was to have for many months. Her anxiety about Helen’s

extraordinary absence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush

with Miss Avery—that only gave zest to the expedition. She had also

eluded Dolly’s invitation to luncheon. Walking straight up from the

station, she crossed the village green and entered the long chestnut

avenue that connects 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 avenue must have been planted by the angels. No more

tempting approach could be imagined for the luke-warm 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 Charles’,

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 country-side have all issued through the

pipes of Greece. Deep and true as the native imagination can be, it

seems to have 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 literature—for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better

still, for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass into our

common talk.

At the church the 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 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 Chilterns 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 something

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 acquired 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 parlour, 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 disquietude. 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 thrush sang his two syllables

on the budding guelder-rose. 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 feeling 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, connect—connect without bitterness until all men are brothers.

But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery’s niece,

and were so tranquillizing that she suffered the interruption gladly.

It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations,

they went out by it. The niece was now mortified by unnumerable

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 ruffling the tails of the ducks as they

floated in families over Evie’s pendant. One of those delicious gales

of spring, in which leaves stiff in bud seem to rustle, swept over the

land and then fell silent. “Georgia,” sang the thrush. “Cuckoo,” came

furtively from the cliff of pine-trees. “Georgia, pretty Georgia,” and

the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted

picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines 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!” severed the air. There

was no reply, and the front door was locked.

“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 was

fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood

propped up against them, which looked ominously 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 eccentric 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 response. They walked round the

house disconsolately.

“I hope Miss Avery is not ill,” hazarded Margaret.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” said Madge, “perhaps I ought to be leaving

you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at

times.” Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if

her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once.

Miss Avery said, “Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!” 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; the 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 explain,” 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.”

“I don’t know—I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes,

that’s all right. Delightful.”

“There is still the parlour.” She went through the door opposite and

drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room and the drawing-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 up the kitchen blind. “I’ve

not finished here yet,” she announced, returning. “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 misunderstanding. 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 intently, 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. “We 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 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 responsible for Miss Avery’s oddness. But Margaret suspected

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 suffer 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, they 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 suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn’t for

us to repine.”

“They breed and they also work,” said Margaret, conscious 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 think 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 distinguished 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

‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’ in their land, but would people please

not come in. Mrs. Howard was never created to run 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 dues.

“I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a—no disrespect to you to

say this, for I take it you were intended to get Wilcox any way,

whether she got him first or no.”

“Whom should she have married?”

“A soldier!” 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 waiting. 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 respected 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 resigned 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 warehouse 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 advised

her to store in London after all.

But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her.