第 八 章 · The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was to develop

. 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 things. 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 indications behind her. It is certain that she came to call

at Wickham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen was going

with her cousin to Stettin.

“Helen!” cried Fräulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she was now in her

cousin’s confidence)—“his mother has forgiven you!” And then,

remembering that in England the new-comer ought not to call before she

is called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval, 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 retorted, 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 gentleman, Meg,

Meg. Can a body speak plainer?”

“Most certainly her love has died,” asserted Fräulein Mosebach.

“Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being

bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call.”

Then Helen simulated tears, and Fräulein Mosebach, who thought her

extremely amusing, did the same. “Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg’s going

to return the call, and I can’t. ’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 gentleman; I don’t love the

young—0 lud, who’s that coming 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” with laughter, 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

feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that,

however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become

important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other

subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs.

Fräulein 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 excuse

her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she

did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She 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,

I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did

not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your

family, and, in my sister’s case, the grounds for displeasure might

recur. As far as I know, she no longer occupies her thoughts with your

son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met,

and it is therefore right that our acquaintance which began so

pleasantly, should end.

I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will

not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an

instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister

would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her

knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my

discourtesy.

Believe me,

Yours truly,

Margaret sent this letter round by post. Next morning she received the

following reply by hand:

Dear Miss Schlegel,

You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that

Paul has gone abroad.

Ruth Wilcox

Margaret’s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on

fire with shame. Helen had told her that the youth was leaving England,

but other things had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All

her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place arose the

certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness affected

Margaret like a bitter taste in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times

it is necessary, but woe to those who employ it without due need. She

flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the

fog, which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter

remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the street, entered

the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up

the stairs till she reached the second-floor.

She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown straight into Mrs.

Wilcox’s bedroom.

“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more

ashamed and sorry than I can say.”

Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the

contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid

table that spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table

beside her. The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the

light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands,

combined to create a strange atmosphere of dissolution.

“I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot.”

“He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa.”

“I knew—I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much

ashamed.”

Mrs. Wilcox did not answer.

“I 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, certainly, it is quite

safe—safe, absolutely, now.”

“You’ve been worrying too!” exclaimed Margaret, getting more and more

excited, and taking a chair without invitation. “How perfectly

extraordinary! I can see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn’t

meet him again.”

“I did think it best.”

“Now why?”

“That’s 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 instinct, which may be wrong.”

“It wasn’t that your son still—”

“Oh no; he often—my Paul is very young, you see.”

“Then what was it?”

She repeated: “An instinct which may be wrong.”

“In other words, they belong to types that can fall in love, but

couldn’t live together. That’s dreadfully probable. I’m afraid that in

nine cases out of ten Nature pulls one way and human nature another.”

“These are indeed ‘other words,’” said Mrs. Wilcox.” I had nothing so

coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed when I knew that my boy cared

for your sister.”

“Ah, I 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 uncertain over things. It is my way of

speaking.”

“That’s all right, and I’m sure too.”

Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. They were

interrupted, and when they resumed conversation it was on more normal

lines.

“I must say good-bye now—you will be getting up.”

“No—please stop a little longer—I 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 Margaret. “When there

are all the autumn exhibitions, and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not

to mention people.”

“The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the wedding, and then

Paul went off, and, instead of resting yesterday, I paid a round of

calls.”

“A wedding?”

“Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married.”

“Indeed!”

“We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that Paul could get

his African outfit. The flat belongs to a cousin of my husband’s, and

she most kindly offered it to us. So before the day came we were able

to make the acquaintance of Dolly’s people, which we had not yet done.”

Margaret asked who Dolly’s people were.

“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 another some time. They

belong to the same club, and are both devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf

too, though I believe not so well, and they first met in a mixed

foursome. We all like her, and are very much pleased. They were married

on the 11th, a few days before Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to

have his brother as best man, so he made a great point of having it on

the 11th. The Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas, but

they were very nice about it. There is Dolly’s photograph—in that

double frame.”

“Are you quite certain that I’m not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Then I will 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

triangular faces that so often prove attractive to a robust man. She

was very pretty. From her Margaret passed to Charles, whose features

prevailed opposite. She speculated on the forces that had drawn the two

together till God parted them. She found time to hope that they would

be happy.

“They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon.”

“Lucky people!”

“I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy.”

“Doesn’t he care for travelling?”

“He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. What he enjoys

most is a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried

the day if the weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him

a car of his own for a wedding present, which for the present is being

stored at 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 toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to

the tree.”

“I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions.”

“Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, 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

account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles

concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were

motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew

inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed

Dolly’s glass, apologized, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was

pitied, and finally said she must be going—there was all the

housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby’s 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 eternal shadows.

“I almost think you forget you’re a girl.”

Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. “I’m twenty-nine,” she

remarked. “That not so wildly girlish.”

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 difficult 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 remember 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

proportion. Don’t _begin_ with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let

proportion come in as a last resource, when the better things have

failed, and 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.”