Howards End
“Oh, well”--she controlled herself with difficulty. “Really. Are you?
I--” She moved; away from the ticket boy and lowered her voice. “I am
Miss Schlegel’s aunt. I ought to introduce myself, oughtn’t I? My name
is Mrs. Munt.”
She was conscious that he raised his cap and said quite coolly, “Oh,
rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with us. Did you want to see her?”
“Possibly.”
“I’ll call you a cab. No; wait a mo--” He thought. “Our motor’s here.
I’ll run you up in it.”
“That is very kind.”
“Not at all, if you’ll just wait till they bring out a parcel from the
office. This way.”
“My niece is not with you by any chance?”
“No; I came over with my father. He has gone on north in your train.
You’ll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. You’re coming up to lunch, I hope?”
“I should like to come UP,” said Mrs. Munt, not committing herself to
nourishment until she had studied Helen’s lover a little more. He seemed
a gentleman, but had so rattled her round that her powers of observation
were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily.
To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp depressions at
the corners of his mouth, or in the rather box-like construction of his
forehead. He was dark, clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to command.
“In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be windy in front.”
“In front if I may; then we can talk.”
“But excuse me one moment--I can’t think what they’re doing with that
parcel.” He strode into the booking-office, and called with a new voice:
“Hi! hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel for
Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!”
Emerging, he said in quieter tones: “This station’s abominably
organised; if I had my way, the whole lot of ’em should get the sack.
May I help you in?”
“This is very good of you,” said Mrs. Munt, as she settled herself into
a luxurious cavern of red leather, and suffered her person to be padded
with rugs and shawls. She was more civil than she had intended, but
really this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a little afraid
of him; his self-possession was extraordinary. “Very good indeed,” she
repeated, adding: “It is just what I should have wished.”
“Very good of you to say so,” he replied, with a slight look of
surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped Mrs. Munt’s attention.
“I was just tooling my father over to catch the down train.”
“You see, we heard from Helen this morning.”
Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, and performing
other actions with which this story has no concern. The great car began
to rock, and the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang
agreeably up and down among the red cushions. “The mater will be very
glad to see you,” he mumbled. “Hi! I say. Parcel. Parcel for Howards
End. Bring it out. Hi!”
A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry book
in the other. With the gathering whir of the motor these ejaculations
mingled: “Sign, must I? Why the -- should I sign after all this bother?
Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time I report you to the
station-master. My time’s of value, though yours mayn’t be. Here”--here
being a tip.
“Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.”
“Not at all, Mr. Wilcox.”
“And do you object to going through the village? It is rather a longer
spin, but I have one or two commissions.”
“I should love going through the village. Naturally I am very anxious to
talk things over with you.”
As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was disobeying Margaret’s
instructions. Only disobeying them in the letter, surely. Margaret had
only warned her against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely
it was not “uncivilised or wrong” to discuss it with the young man
himself, since chance had thrown them together.
A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by her side, he put on
gloves and spectacles, and off they drove, the bearded porter--life is a
mysterious business--looking after them with admiration.
The wind was in their faces down the station road, blowing the dust into
Mrs. Munt’s eyes. But as soon as they turned into the Great North Road
she opened fire. “You can well imagine,” she said, “that the news was a
great shock to us.”
“What news?”
“Mr. Wilcox,” she said frankly, “Margaret has told me
everything--everything. I have seen Helen’s letter.”
He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were fixed on his work;
he was travelling as quickly as he dared down the High Street. But he
inclined his head in her direction, and said: “I beg your pardon; I
didn’t catch.”
“About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very exceptional person--I
am sure you will let me say this, feeling towards her as you do--indeed,
all the Schlegels are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference,
but it was a great shock.”
They drew up opposite a draper’s. Without replying, he turned round in
his seat, and contemplated the cloud of dust that they had raised in
their passage through the village. It was settling again, but not all
into the road from which he had taken it. Some of it had percolated
through the open windows, some had whitened the roses and gooseberries
of the wayside gardens, while a certain proportion had entered the
lungs of the villagers. “I wonder when they’ll learn wisdom and tar the
roads,” was his comment. Then a man ran out of the draper’s with a roll
of oilcloth, and off they went again.
“Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor Tibby, so I am here
to represent her and to have a good talk.”
“I’m sorry to be so dense,” said the young man, again drawing up outside
a shop. “But I still haven’t quite understood.”
“Helen, Mr. Wilcox--my niece and you.”
He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, absolutely bewildered. Horror
smote her to the heart, for even she began to suspect that they were at
cross-purposes, and that she had commenced her mission by some hideous
blunder.
“Miss Schlegel and myself?” he asked, compressing his lips.
“I trust there has been no misunderstanding,” quavered Mrs. Munt. “Her
letter certainly read that way.”
“What way?”
“That you and she--” She paused, then drooped her eyelids.
“I think I catch your meaning,” he said stickily. “What an extraordinary
mistake!”
“Then you didn’t the least--” she stammered, getting blood-red in the
face, and wishing she had never been born.
“Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady.” There was a
moment’s silence, and then he caught his breath and exploded with, “Oh,
good God! Don’t tell me it’s some silliness of Paul’s.”
“But you are Paul.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why did you say so at the station?”
“I said nothing of the sort.”
“I beg your pardon, you did.”
“I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles.”
“Younger” may mean son as opposed to father, or second brother as
opposed to first. There is much to be said for either view, and later on
they said it. But they had other questions before them now.
“Do you mean to tell me that Paul--”
But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he was talking to a
porter, and, certain that he had deceived her at the station, she too
grew angry.
“Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your niece--”
Mrs. Munt--such is human nature--determined that she would champion the
lovers. She was not going to be bullied by a severe young man. “Yes,
they care for one another very much indeed,” she said. “I dare say they
will tell you about it by-and-by. We heard this morning.”
And Charles clenched his fist and cried, “The idiot, the idiot, the
little fool!”
Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. “If that is your
attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk.”
“I beg you will do no such thing. I take you up this moment to the
house. Let me tell you the thing’s impossible, and must be stopped.”
Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when she did it was only to
protect those whom she loved. On this occasion she blazed out. “I quite
agree, sir. The thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop it. My
niece is a very exceptional person, and I am not inclined to sit still
while she throws herself away on those who will not appreciate her.”
Charles worked his jaws.
“Considering she has only known your brother since Wednesday, and only
met your father and mother at a stray hotel--”
“Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman will overhear.”
Esprit de classe--if one may coin the phrase--was strong in Mrs. Munt.
She sat quivering while a member of the lower orders deposited a metal
funnel, a saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth.
“Right behind?”
“Yes, sir.” And the lower orders vanished in a cloud of dust.
“I warn you: Paul hasn’t a penny; it’s useless.”
“No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The warning is all the
other way. My niece has been very foolish, and I shall give her a good
scolding and take her back to London with me.”
“He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He couldn’t think of marrying
for years, and when he does it must be a woman who can stand the
climate, and is in other ways--Why hasn’t he told us? Of course he’s
ashamed. He knows he’s been a fool. And so he has--a downright fool.”
She grew furious.
“Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publishing the news.”
“If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark I’d box your ears.
You’re not fit to clean my niece’s boots, to sit in the same room with
her, and you dare--you actually dare--I decline to argue with such a
person.”
“All I know is, she’s spread the thing and he hasn’t, and my father’s
away and I--”
“And all that I know is--”
“Might I finish my sentence, please?”
“No.”
Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerving all over the
lane.
She screamed.
So they played the game of Capping Families, a round of which is always
played when love would unite two members of our race. But they played it
with unusual vigour, stating in so many words that Schlegels were better
than Wilcoxes, Wilcoxes better than Schlegels. They flung decency
aside. The man was young, the woman deeply stirred; in both a vein of
coarseness was latent. Their quarrel was no more surprising than are
most quarrels--inevitable at the time, incredible afterwards. But it was
more than usually futile. A few minutes, and they were enlightened. The
motor drew up at Howards End, and Helen, looking very pale, ran out to
meet her aunt.
“Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Margaret; I--I meant to
stop your coming. It isn’t--it’s over.”
The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst into tears.
“Aunt Juley dear, don’t. Don’t let them know I’ve been so silly. It
wasn’t anything. Do bear up for my sake.”
“Paul,” cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off.
“Don’t let them know. They are never to know.”
“Oh, my darling Helen--”
“Paul! Paul!”
A very young man came out of the house.
“Paul, is there any truth in this?”
“I didn’t--I don’t--”
“Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did or didn’t Miss
Schlegel--”
“Charles, dear,” said a voice from the garden. “Charles, dear Charles,
one doesn’t ask plain questions. There aren’t such things.”
They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox.
She approached just as Helen’s letter had described her, trailing
noiselessly over the lawn, and there was actually a wisp of hay in her
hands. She seemed to belong not to the young people and their motor, but
to the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she
worshipped the past, and that the instinctive wisdom the past can alone
bestow had descended upon her--that wisdom to which we give the clumsy
name of aristocracy. High born she might not be. But assuredly she cared
about her ancestors, and let them help her. When she saw Charles angry,