Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. Her
nieces were independent young women, and it was not often
that she was able to help them. Emily's daughters had never
been quite like other girls. They had been left motherless
when Tibby was born, when Helen was five and Margaret
herself but thirteen. It was before the passing of the
Deceased Wife's Sister Bill, so Mrs. Munt could without
impropriety offer to go and keep house at Wickham Place.
But her brother-in-law, who was peculiar and a German, had
referred the question to Margaret, who with the crudity of
youth had answered, "No, they could manage much better
alone." Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs.
Munt had repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no longer, had
been grateful and extremely nice, but the substance of her
answer had been the same. "I must not interfere a third
time," thought Mrs. Munt. However, of course she did. She
learnt, to her horror, that Margaret, now of age, was taking
her money out of the old safe investments and putting it
into Foreign Things, which always smash. Silence would have
been criminal. Her own fortune was invested in Home Rails,
and most ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her.
"Then we should be together, dear." Margaret, out of
politeness, invested a few hundreds in the Nottingham and
Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did admirably
and the Nottingham and Derby declined with the steady
dignity of which only Home Rails are capable, Mrs. Munt
never ceased to rejoice, and to say, "I did manage that, at
all events. When the smash comes poor Margaret will have a
nest-egg to fall back upon." This year Helen came of age,
and exactly the same thing happened in Helen's case; she
also would shift her money out of Consols, but she, too,
almost without being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it
to the Nottingham and Derby Railway. So far so good, but in
social matters their aunt had accomplished nothing. Sooner
or later the girls would enter on the process known as
throwing themselves away, and if they had delayed hitherto,
it was only that they might throw themselves more vehemently
in the future. They saw too many people at Wickham
Place--unshaven musicians, an actress even, German cousins
(one knows what foreigners are), acquaintances picked up at
Continental hotels (one knows what they are too). It was
interesting, and down at Swanage no one appreciated culture
more than Mrs. Munt; but it was dangerous, and disaster was
bound to come. How right she was, and how lucky to be on
the spot when the disaster came!
The train sped northward, under innumerable tunnels. It
was only an hour's journey, but Mrs. Munt had to raise and
lower the window again and again. She passed through the
South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for a moment, and entered the
North Welwyn Tunnel, of tragic fame. She traversed the
immense viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and
the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks of
politicians. At times the Great North Road accompanied her,
more suggestive of infinity than any railway, awakening,
after a nap of a hundred years, to such life as is conferred
by the stench of motor-cars, and to such culture as is
implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills. To
history, to tragedy, to the past, to the future, Mrs. Munt
remained equally indifferent; hers but to concentrate on the
end of her journey, and to rescue poor Helen from this
dreadful mess.
The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of the
large villages that are strung so frequently along the North
Road, and that owe their size to the traffic of coaching and
pre-coaching days. Being near London, it had not shared in
the rural decay, and its long High Street had budded out
right and left into residential estates. For about a mile a
series of tiled and slated houses passed before Mrs. Munt's
inattentive eyes, a series broken at one point by six Danish
tumuli that stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad,
tombs of soldiers. Beyond these tumuli habitations
thickened, and the train came to a standstill in a tangle
that was almost a town.
The station, like the scenery, like Helen's letters,
struck an indeterminate note. Into which country will it
lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had island
platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort exacted
by business men. But it held hints of local life, personal
intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to discover.
"I want a house," she confided to the ticket boy. "Its
name is Howards Lodge. Do you know where it is?"
"Mr. Wilcox!" the boy called.
A young man in front of them turned round.
"She's wanting Howards End."
There was nothing for it but to go forward, though Mrs.
Munt was too much agitated even to stare at the stranger.
But remembering that there were two brothers, she had the
sense to say to him, "Excuse me asking, but are you the
younger Mr. Wilcox or the elder?"
"The younger. Can I do anything for you?"
"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 Schlegels 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, nor 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 organized; 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 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
"uncivilized 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'll 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 damned 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, Paul frightened,
and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say,
"Separate those human beings who will hurt each other most.
The rest can wait." So she did not ask questions. Still
less did she pretend that nothing had happened, as a
competent society hostess would have done. She said, "Miss
Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your room or to my
room, whichever you think best. Paul, do find Evie, and
tell her lunch for six, but I'm not sure whether we shall
all be downstairs for it." And when they had obeyed her, she
turned to her elder son, who still stood in the throbbing
stinking car, and smiled at him with tenderness, and without
a word, turned away from him towards her flowers.
"Mother," he called, "are you aware that Paul has been
playing the fool again?"
"It's all right, dear. They have broken off the engagement."
"Engagement--!"
"They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that
way," said Mrs. Wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose.
