Howards End
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 triumph, 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 girl called, “Father! I say! look who’s here.”
“Evie, dearest girl, why aren’t you in Yorkshire?”
“No--motor smash--changed plans--father’s coming.”
“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 A1 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 policeman 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 daughter, listening to both of them.
CHAPTER XI
The funeral was over. The carriages had rolled away through the soft
mud, and only the poor remained. They approached 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. 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 luxuriously in his mouth.
He tried to tell his mother down below all that he had felt when he saw
the coffin approaching: 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
been 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 funeral of Alcestis or Ophelia is to the
educated. It was Art; though remote from life, it enhanced life’s
values, and they witnessed it avidly.
The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent of disapproval--they
disliked Charles; it was not a moment to speak of such things, but they
did not like Charles Wilcox--the grave-diggers 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 scarlet frown. Chattering 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 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.
Trudging on a few steps, he stopped again, looked furtively at the dusk,
turned back, wrenched a chrysanthemum 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 interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds
drifted over it from the west; or the church may have been a ship,
high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards
morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth
hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning
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
in 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 passion or frivolity. Not so his
wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had
been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence!
The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew
no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her
garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--“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 Dissenters, 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
complaints 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,
is in appearance 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 forehead, too, was like Charles’s.
High and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and
skull, it had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the
world. At times it had the effect 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 a rubbishy little
creature, and she knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to
the death-bed 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 marriage, 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 only for this, that her father-in-law was
having his breakfast 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 affair.”
“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 sister.
“Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley.”
“Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley.”
“It’s no good his 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 healthy 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 realised 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 against her gentle