Howards End
like this. I warn you I won’t. Helen, why should you be so miserably
unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?”
“I don’t hate him now,” said Helen. “I have stopped being a schoolgirl,
and, Meg, once again, I’m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with
your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit
from me at Ducie Street! It’s unthinkable.”
Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly
moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither
asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and
the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through--how
much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old
habits as well as old friends.
“Tell me about yourself,” said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was
lingering over the furniture.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“But your marriage has been happy, Meg?”
“Yes, but I don’t feel inclined to talk.”
“You feel as I do.”
“Not that, but I can’t.”
“No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying.”
Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which
henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already
potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered
acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection
survived.
“Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?”
“You mean that you want to go away from me?”
“I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn’t any use. I knew we should have
nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more
yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later.”
“Certainly, dearest.”
“For that is all we can do.”
It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen’s common sense; Monica had
been extraordinarily good for her.
“I am glad to have seen you and the things.” She looked at the bookcase
lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past.
Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: “The car has gone, and here’s
your cab.”
She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring
had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the
gate, called out, “Please, lady, a message,” and handed her Henry’s
visiting-card through the bars.
“How did this come?” she asked.
Crane had returned with it almost at once.
She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in
domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back
for the night to Dolly’s. “Il faut dormir sur ce sujet.” while Helen
was to be found une comfortable chambre a l’hotel. The final sentence
displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles’s had only
one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest.
“Henry would have done what he could,” she interpreted.
Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost
her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to
table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming.
“This IS Mr. Wilcox’s house?” she inquired.
“Surely you remember Howards End?”
“Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now.”
“Miss Avery was extraordinary,” said Margaret, her own spirits
lightening a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of
disloyalty. But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it. “She loved
Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her home with our things than
think of it empty. In consequence here are all the library books.”
“Not all the books. She hasn’t unpacked the Art books, in which she may
show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here.”
“The sword looks well, though.”
“Magnificent.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
“Where’s the piano, Meg?”
“I warehoused that in London. Why?”
“Nothing.”
“Curious, too, that the carpet fits.”
“The carpet’s a mistake,” announced Helen. “I know that we had it in
London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful.”
“You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come
into the dining-room before you start? There’s no carpet there.”
They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural.
“Oh, WHAT a place for mother’s chiffonier!” cried Helen.
“Look at the chairs, though.”
“Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn’t it?”
“North-west.”
“Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun.
Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm.”
“But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--”
“Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn.”
Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it.
“Ye--es. The window’s too high.”
“Try a drawing-room chair.”
“No, I don’t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been
match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise.”
“Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You’re perfectly right.
It’s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for
women. Men don’t know what we want--”
“And never will.”
“I don’t agree. In two thousand years they’ll know. Look where Tibby
spilt the soup.”
“Coffee. It was coffee surely.”
Helen shook her head. “Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given
coffee at that time.”
“Was father alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much
later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley’s, when she didn’t realise
that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on
purpose. There was some rhyme, ‘Tea, coffee--coffee tea,’ that she said
to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?”
“I know--no, I don’t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!”
“But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it.”
“Ah, that greengage-tree,” cried Helen, as if the garden was also part
of their childhood. “Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come
the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers.”
Margaret interrupted her. “I have got it,” she announced.
“‘Tea, tea, coffee, tea,
Or chocolaritee.’
“That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild.”
“Tibby is moderately a dear now,” said Helen.
“There! I knew you’d say that in the end. Of course he’s a dear.”
A bell rang.
“Listen! what’s that?”
Helen said, “Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege.”
“What nonsense--listen!”
And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something
behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love
was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they
had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other
unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past
sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring
that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of
children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, “It
is always Meg.” They looked into each other’s eyes. The inner life had
paid.
Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to
the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their
visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned.
“Little boy, what do you want?”
“Please, I am the milk.”
“Did Miss Avery send you?” said Margaret, rather sharply.
“Yes, please.”
“Then take it back and say we require no milk.” While she called to
Helen, “No, it’s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us
against one.”
“But I like milk,” cried Helen. “Why send it away?”
“Do you? Oh, very well. But we’ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the
can.”
“Please, I’m to call in the morning for the can,” said the boy.
“The house will be locked up then.”
“In the morning would I bring eggs too?”
“Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?”
The child hung his head.
“Well, run away and do it again.”
“Nice little boy,” whispered Helen. “I say, what’s your name? Mine’s
Helen.”
“Tom.”
That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name,
but they never told their names in return.
“Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we’ve another called Tibby.”
“Mine are lop-eareds,” replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit.
“You’re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come
again.--Isn’t he charming?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Margaret. “He is probably the son of Madge, and
Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because I probably agree with you.”
“It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live.”
“I do agree,” said Helen, as she sipped the milk. “But you said that the
house was dead not half an hour ago.”
“Meaning that I was dead. I felt it.”
“Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as
it is, I can’t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone
full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I’ve a
startling idea.”
“What is it?”
“Drink some milk to steady you.”
Margaret obeyed.
“No, I won’t tell you yet,” said Helen, “because you may laugh or be
angry. Let’s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing.”
They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling
to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen
uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right
place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not
having moved the wardrobes up. “Then one would see really.” She admired
the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four
years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: “About my
idea. Couldn’t you and I camp out in this house for the night?”
“I don’t think we could well do that,” said Margaret.
“Here are beds, tables, towels--”
“I know; but the house isn’t supposed to be slept in, and Henry’s
suggestion was--”
“I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But
it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It
will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let’s!”
“But, Helen, my pet,” said Margaret, “we can’t without getting Henry’s
leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you
couldn’t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate.”
“Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of
people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom
shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It’s a moon.”
Margaret hesitated. “I feel Charles wouldn’t like it,” she said at last.
“Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when
Aunt Juley’s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels
it’s his mother’s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I
could answer for--not Charles.”
“I know he won’t like it,” said Helen. “But I am going to pass out of
their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say,
‘And she even spent the night at Howards End’?”
“How do you know you’ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that
twice before.”
“Because my plans--”
“--which you change in a moment.”
“Then because my life is great and theirs are little,” said Helen,
taking fire. “I know of things they can’t know of, and so do you. We
know that there’s poetry. We know that there’s death. They can only take
them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh,
they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night
we are at home.”
“It would be lovely to have you once more alone,” said Margaret. “It may
be a chance in a thousand.”