Howards End
after the business, it’s no good my settling down here,” he said at
last. “It’s not really the country, and it’s not the town.”
“Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?”
“Of course, father.”
“And you, Dolly?”
Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not
steady. “Perfectly splendidly,” she said. “I thought Charles wanted
it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot
possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought
to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits
Charles and me, and I can’t think of any other name.”
There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that
she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm.
“Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely,” said Henry. “And let
everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy
and no surprise.”
Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph.
She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight
through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives.
“In consequence, I leave my wife no money,” said Henry. “That is her own
wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also
giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent
of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of
money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten
years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down
in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?”
Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little
shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said:
“Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole
establishment, piccaninnies included.”
Mrs. Cahill whispered: “Don’t, Paul. You promised you’d take care.”
Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave.
Her father kissed her. “Good-bye, old girl,” he said; “don’t you worry
about me.”
“Good-bye, dad.”
Then it was Dolly’s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously,
and said: “Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox
should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all.”
From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. “Goodbye,” she said to Margaret,
and kissed her.
And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea.
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Dolly.”
“So long, father.”
“Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox.”
“Good-bye.”
Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her
husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But
Dolly’s remark had interested her. At last she said: “Could you tell me,
Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?”
Tranquilly he replied: “Yes, she did. But that is a very old story.
When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some
return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled ‘Howards End’ on
a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly
fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaret would be to me
in the future.”
Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses,
and she shivered.
“I didn’t do wrong, did I?” he asked, bending down.
“You didn’t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong.”
From the garden came laughter. “Here they are at last!” exclaimed Henry,
disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding
Tom by one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of
infectious joy.
“The field’s cut!” Helen cried excitedly--“the big meadow! We’ve seen to
the very end, and it’ll be such a crop of hay as never!”
WEYBRIDGE, 1908-1910.