HOWARDS END
Chapter 2
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."
"Who knows, Aunt Juley, who
knows?"
"But, Margaret dear, I mean we mustn't be
unpractical 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, I
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 Köln.' Those three sees once commanded
the Rhine Valley and got it the name of Priest
Street."
"I still feel quite uneasy about this
business, Margaret."
"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 our
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 London morning. Their house was in Wickham
Place, and fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings separated it from
the main thoroughfare. One had the 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
concierges 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 humanity 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 hysterical, 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 thinking 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 when you come
to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old
would the son be? She says 'younger son.' Would he be in a position to
marry? 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 this 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 me 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 forget instead of
you."
"Aunt Juley"--she jumped up and kissed her--"I
must, must go to Howards End myself. You don't exactly understand, though
I can never thank you properly for offering."
"I do
understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go down in no
spirit of interference, 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 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
brilliant, 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 another 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 person 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
suppose? I think it's made of some hard stuff, that may snap, but can't
break. It is different 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 understand 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 membrane, he
informed her, was in a most unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that
made 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 offence to love at first sight. A telegram to this effect 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 downstairs 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-effacement,
fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the
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 clear of the relatives. We have
scarcely got their names straight yet, and besides, that sort of thing is so
uncivilized 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."
"Because--" 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 poetically, 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 railway termini.
They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass
out into adventure and sunshine, to them alas! we return. In
Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the inclines of
Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimitable 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 unfortunate as to serve as
waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt Bahnhof the Stazione d'Italia, 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
suggested 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 arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between
them an unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal adventure, whose issue
might be prosperous, but would certainly not be expressed in the ordinary
language of 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. Tell
no one.
--Helen
But Aunt Juley was gone--gone irrevocably, and no
power on earth could stop her.