Howards End
conservatism! How she had disliked improvements, yet how loyally she had
accepted them when made! He and his father--what trouble they had had
to get this very garage! With what difficulty had they persuaded her to
yield them the paddock for it--the paddock that she loved more dearly
than the garden itself! The vine--she had got her way about the vine. It
still encumbered the south wall with its unproductive branches. And so
with Evie, as she stood talking to the cook. Though she could take up
her mother’s work inside the house, just as the man could take it up
without, she felt that something unique had fallen out of her life.
Their grief, though less poignant than their father’s, grew from deeper
roots, for a wife may be replaced; a mother never. Charles would go
back to the office. There was little at Howards End. The contents of his
mother’s will had long been known to them. There were no legacies, no
annuities, none of the posthumous bustle with which some of the dead
prolong their activities. Trusting her husband, she had left him
everything without reserve. She was quite a poor woman--the house had
been all her dowry, and the house would come to Charles in time. Her
watercolours Mr. Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would
take the jewellery and lace. How easily she slipped out of life!
Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend to adopt
it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen in it an almost culpable
indifference to earthly fame. Cynicism--not the superficial cynicism
that snarls and sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and
tenderness--that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox’s will. She wanted not to
vex people. That accomplished, the earth might freeze over her for ever.
No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could not go on
with his honeymoon, so he would go up to London and work--he felt too
miserable hanging about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat
while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He could
also keep an eye on his own little house, which was being painted and
decorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to
install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch in
his new motor, and the town servants, who had come down for the funeral,
would go up by train.
He found his father’s chauffeur in the garage, said “Morning” without
looking at the man’s face, and bending over the car, continued: “Hullo!
my new car’s been driven!”
“Has it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Charles, getting rather red; “and whoever’s driven it hasn’t
cleaned it properly, for there’s mud on the axle. Take it off.”
The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly
as sin--not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm
in a man rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast
with whom they had started.
“Charles--” His bride was tripping after him over the hoar-frost, a
dainty black column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming
the capital thereof.
“One minute, I’m busy. Well, Crane, who’s been driving it, do you
suppose?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure, sir. No one’s driven it since I’ve been back,
but, of course, there’s the fortnight I’ve been away with the other car
in Yorkshire.”
The mud came off easily.
“Charles, your father’s down. Something’s happened. He wants you in the
house at once. Oh, Charles!”
“Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were
away, Crane?”
“The gardener, sir.”
“Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?”
“No, sir; no one’s had the motor out, sir.”
“Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?”
“I can’t, of course, say for the time I’ve been in Yorkshire. No more
mud now, sir.”
Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart
had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it
was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after
lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some
incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel.
“Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?”
When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want
was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was
correct, for his wife replied, “She wants Howards End.”
“Howards End? Now, Crane, just don’t forget to put on the Stepney
wheel.”
“No, sir.”
“Now, mind you don’t forget, for I--Come, little woman.” When they were
out of the chauffeur’s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed
her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what
he granted her throughout their happy married life.
“But you haven’t listened, Charles.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel’s got it.”
“Got what?” said Charles, unclasping her. “What the dickens are you
talking about?”
“Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--”
“Look here, I’m in no mood for foolery. It’s no morning for it either.”
“I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she’s got it--your
mother’s left it to her--and you’ve all got to move out!”
“HOWARDS END?”
“HOWARDS END!” she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came
dashing out of the shubbery.
“Dolly, go back at once! My father’s much annoyed with you.
Charles”--she hit herself wildly--“come in at once to father. He’s had a
letter that’s too awful.”
Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across
the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the
unprolific vine. He exclaimed, “Schlegels again!” and as if to complete
chaos, Dolly said, “Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written
instead of her.”
“Come in, all three of you!” cried his father, no longer inert.
“Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?”
“Oh, Mr. Wilcox--”
“I told you not to go out to the garage. I’ve heard you all shouting in
the garden. I won’t have it. Come in.”
He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand.
“Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can’t discuss private
matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read
these. See what you make.”
Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession.
The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired
her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The
enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: “To my
husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.”
“I suppose we’re going to have a talk about this?” he remarked,
ominously calm.
“Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--”
“Well, let’s sit down.”
“Come, Evie, don’t waste time, sit--down.”
In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of
yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so
remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings
were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady
them further, read the enclosure out loud: “A note in my mother’s
handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside: ‘I
should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.’ No date, no
signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the
question is--”
Dolly interrupted him. “But I say that note isn’t legal. Houses ought to
be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely.”
Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of
either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she
asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for
permission, who said abstractedly, “Give it her.” She seized it, and
at once exclaimed: “Why, it’s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never
counts.”
“We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly,” said Mr. Wilcox,
speaking from out of his fortress. “We are aware of that. Legally, I
should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of
course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be
better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand.”
Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: “The
question is--” He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates
and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. “The
question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all
away, whether she unduly--” He stopped.
“I don’t think that,” said his father, whose nature was nobler than his
son’s.
“Don’t think what?”
“That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to
my mind the question is the--the invalid’s condition at the time she
wrote.”
“My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don’t admit it is
my mother’s writing.”
“Why, you just said it was!” cried Dolly.
“Never mind if I did,” he blazed out; “and hold your tongue.”
The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief
from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling
like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the
committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees.
They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but
disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before
them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles,
after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed
on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging
emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered
the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad.
Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all
went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and
contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows.
Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems,
extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted
lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie’s fox terrier, who had
passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the
purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that
he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional
colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a
rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion
moved towards its close.
To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator
should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to
Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it
had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship;
it was contrary to the dead woman’s intentions in the past, contrary to
her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them
Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been
a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step
farther in these mists--may they not have decided even better than
they supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be
bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a
wisp of hay with dew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted
where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed.
The problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem.
No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear
the note up and throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical
moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper