Howards End
married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time
on other business.
There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to
eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There
had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big
affair--not as big as Margaret’s would be. She noted the dishes and
the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was
proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of
Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this
wedding had gone off so particularly well--“quite like a durbar” in the
opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her.
So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off,
yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards
the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to
her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that
he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was
praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could
with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing
to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons
and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving
towards the house to finish their packing. “I think it did go off
well,” she agreed. “Since I had to jump out of the motor, I’m thankful I
lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only
hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all
remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and
she is not used to entertainments on a large scale.”
“I know,” he said gravely. “Under the circumstances, it would be better
to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley’s, or even to go
to some hotel.”
“You desire a hotel?”
“Yes, because--well, I mustn’t interfere with you. No doubt you want to
be married from your old home.”
“My old home’s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn’t it
a perfect evening--”
“The Alexandrina isn’t bad--”
“The Alexandrina,” she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke
that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with
parallels of grey.
“It’s off Curzon Street.”
“Is it? Let’s be married from off Curzon Street.”
Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the
river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the
bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles’s
bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when
they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of
people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them.
“Who are those people?” she asked.
“They’re callers!” exclaimed Henry. “It’s too late for callers.”
“Perhaps they’re town people who want to see the wedding presents.”
“I’m not at home yet to townees.”
“Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will.”
He thanked her.
Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were
unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility,
since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their
rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the
group was Helen--Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that
tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery
days.
“What is it?” she called. “Oh, what’s wrong? Is Tibby ill?”
Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward
furiously.
“They’re starving!” she shouted. “I found them starving!”
“Who? Why have you come?”
“The Basts.”
“Oh, Helen!” moaned Margaret. “Whatever have you done now?”
“He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he’s
done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you’ll tell
me it’s the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She
fainted in the train.”
“Helen, are you mad?”
“Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I’m mad. But I’ve brought them. I’ll stand
injustice no longer. I’ll show up the wretchedness that lies under this
luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what
we’re too slack to do ourselves.”
“Have you actually brought two starving people from London to
Shropshire, Helen?”
Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated.
“There was a restaurant car on the train,” she said.
“Don’t be absurd. They aren’t starving, and you know it. Now, begin from
the beginning. I won’t have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes,
how dare you!” she repeated, as anger filled her, “bursting in to Evie’s
wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you’ve a perverted
notion of philanthropy. Look”--she indicated the house--“servants,
people out of the windows. They think it’s some vulgar scandal, and
I must explain, ‘Oh no, it’s only my sister screaming, and only two
hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable
reason.’”
“Kindly take back that word ‘hangers-on,’” said Helen, ominously calm.
“Very well,” conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to
avoid a real quarrel. “I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why
you’ve brought them here, or why you’re here yourself.”
“It’s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox.”
Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to
worry Henry.
“He’s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him.”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“I knew it was our last chance.”
“How do you do, Mr. Bast?” said Margaret, trying to control her voice.
“This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?”
“There is Mrs. Bast, too,” prompted Helen.
Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and,
furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could
not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down
like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture,
provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet
her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when
the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn’t go. But she, half
mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and
their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and
Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew
cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive
scent. “You have fainted,” said the lady in an awe-struck voice.
“Perhaps the air will do you good.” And perhaps it had, for here she
was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers.
“I’m sure I don’t want to intrude,” began Leonard, in answer to
Margaret’s question. “But you have been so kind to me in the past
in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered
whether--”
“Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,” supplied
Helen. “Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening’s work
that was on Chelsea Embankment.”
Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.
“I don’t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was
a bad concern, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“And went into a bank instead?”
“I told you all that,” said Helen; “and they reduced their staff after
he had been in a month, and now he’s penniless, and I consider that we
and our informant are directly to blame.”
“I hate all this,” Leonard muttered.
“I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it’s no good mincing matters. You have
done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr.
Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a
very great mistake.”
“I brought them. I did it all,” cried Helen.
“I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false
position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It’s too late to get to
town, but you’ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can
rest, and I hope you’ll be my guests there.”
“That isn’t what I want, Miss Schlegel,” said Leonard. “You’re very
kind, and no doubt it’s a false position, but you make me miserable. I
seem no good at all.”
“It’s work he wants,” interpreted Helen. “Can’t you see?”
Then he said: “Jacky, let’s go. We’re more bother than we’re worth.
We’re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us,
and they never will. There’s nothing we’re good enough to do.”
“We would like to find you work,” said Margaret rather conventionally.
“We want to--I, like my sister. You’re only down in your luck. Go to the
hotel, have a good night’s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the
bill, if you prefer it.”
But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I shall never get
work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another.
Not I. I had my groove, and I’ve got out of it. I could do one
particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to
command a salary, but that’s all. Poetry’s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One’s
thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing,
if you’ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own
particular job, it’s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others.
Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall
over the edge. It’s no good. It’s the whole world pulling. There always
will be rich and poor.”
He ceased. “Won’t you have something to eat?” said Margaret. “I don’t
know what to do. It isn’t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have
been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don’t know what
to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them
something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast.”
They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing.
Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne,
remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard
refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them
whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen.
She said: “Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he’s worth helping. I
agree that we are directly responsible.”
“No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox.”
“Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I’ll
do nothing. No doubt you’re right logically, and are entitled to say
a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won’t have it. So
choose.”
Helen looked at the sunset.
“If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry
about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd
screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a
question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that
we can’t give him, but possibly Henry can.”
“It’s his duty to,” grumbled Helen.
“Nor am I concerned with duty. I’m concerned with the characters of
various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things
may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all
business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff,
because I want to make things a little better.”
“Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly.”
“Take them off to the George, then, and I’ll try. Poor creatures! but
they look tired.” As they parted, she added: “I haven’t nearly done with
you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can’t get over
it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it
over and alter yourself, or we shan’t have happy lives.”