The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was
to develop so--quickly and with such strange results, may
perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer, in the spring.
Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the vulgar, ruddy
cathedral, and listened to the talk of Helen and her
husband, may have detected in the other and less charming of
the sisters a deeper sympathy, a sounder judgment. She was
capable of detecting such things. Perhaps it was she who
had desired the Miss Schlegels to be invited to Howards End,
and Margaret whose presence she had particularly desired.
All this is speculation: Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear
indications behind her. It is certain that she came to call
at Wickham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen
was going with her cousin to Stettin.
"Helen!" cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she
was now in her cousin's confidence)--"his mother has
forgiven you!" And then, remembering that in England the
new-comer ought not to call before she is called upon, she
changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that
Mrs. Wilcox was "keine Dame."
"Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen,
stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish your
packing. Why can't the woman leave us alone?"
"I don't know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted,
collapsing upon the stairs. "She's got Wilcox and Box upon
the brain. Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I
don't love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?"
"Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach.
"Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not
prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return
the call."
Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who
thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo!
boo hoo hoo! Meg's going to return the call, and I can't.
'Cos why? 'Cos I'm going to German-eye."
"If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you
aren't, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me."
"But, Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I
don't love the young--0 lud, who's that coming down the
stairs? I vow 'tis my brother. 0 crimini!"
A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop
the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among
the civilized, is still high, and higher on the side of
women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much
about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not
prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with
laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it
precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not
concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she
betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however
trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become
important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool
on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove
her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered
to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all
right--she does not love the young man--he has not been
worthy of her."
"Yes, I know; thanks very much."
"I thought I did right to tell you."
"Ever so many thanks."
"What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he
proceeded into the dining-room, to eat Elvas plums.
That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house
was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed
against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and
Helen and all their luggage had gone. Tibby, who was not
feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret
sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to
impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The
practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and
generally knows nothing else, will excuse her of
indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when
she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then.
She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the
matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed
with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought
was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that
leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped
away.
Dear Mrs. Wilcox,
I have to write something discourteous. It would be
better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt
have given displeasure to your family, and, in my
sister's case, the grounds for displeasure might recur.
As far as I know, she no longer occupies her thoughts
with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her
or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that
our acquaintance which began so pleasantly, should end.
I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I
know that you will not, since you have been good enough
to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no
doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would,
undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her
knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her
with my discourtesy.
Believe me,
Yours truly,
M. J. Schlegel
Margaret sent this letter round by post. Next morning
she received the following reply by hand:
Dear Miss Schlegel,
You should not have written me such a letter. I
called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad.
Ruth Wilcox
Margaret's cheeks burnt. She could not finish her
breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told her
that the youth was leaving England, but other things had
seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her
absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place
arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox.
Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in the
mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe
to those who employ it without due need. She flung on a hat
and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog,
which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter
remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the
street, entered the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded
the concierges, and ran up the stairs till she reached the
second-floor.
She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown
straight into Mrs. Wilcox's bedroom.
"Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am
more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say."
Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did
not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in bed,
writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her knees.
A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. The light
of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a
candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands,
combined to create a strange atmosphere of dissolution.
"I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot."
"He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa."
"I knew--I know. I have been too absurd all through. I
am very much ashamed."
Mrs. Wilcox did not answer.
"I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you
will forgive me."
"It doesn't matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to
have come round so promptly."
"It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude to
you; and my sister is not even at home, so there was not
even that excuse.
"Indeed?"
"She has just gone to Germany."
"She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes,
certainly, it is quite safe--safe, absolutely, now."
"You've been worrying too!" exclaimed Margaret, getting
more and more excited, and taking a chair without
invitation. "How perfectly extraordinary! I can see that
you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn't meet him again."
"I did think it best."
"Now why?"
"That's a most difficult question," said Mrs. Wilcox,
smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance.
"I think you put it best in your letter--it was an instinct,
which may be wrong."
"It wasn't that your son still--"
"Oh no; he often--my Paul is very young, you see."
"Then what was it?"
She repeated: "An instinct which may be wrong."
"In other words, they belong to types that can fall in
love, but couldn't live together. That's dreadfully
probable. I'm afraid that in nine cases out of ten Nature
pulls one way and human nature another."
"These are indeed 'other words,'" said Mrs. Wilcox." I
had nothing so coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed
when I knew that my boy cared for your sister."
"Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How did you
know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt drove up, and
you stepped forward and arranged things. Did Paul tell you?"
"There is nothing to be gained by discussing that," said
Mrs. Wilcox after a moment's pause.
"Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I
wrote you a letter and you didn't answer it."
"I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson's flat. I
knew it was opposite your house."
"But it's all right now?"
"I think so."
"You only think? You aren't sure? I do love these
little muddles tidied up?"
"Oh yes, I'm sure," said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with
uneasiness beneath the clothes. "I always sound uncertain
over things. It is my way of speaking."
"That's all right, and I'm sure too."
Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray.
They were interrupted, and when they resumed conversation it
was on more normal lines.
"I must say good-bye now--you will be getting up."
"No--please stop a little longer--I am taking a day in
bed. Now and then I do."
"I thought of you as one of the early risers."
"At Howards End--yes; there is nothing to get up for in London."
"Nothing to get up for?" cried the scandalized
Margaret. "When there are all the autumn exhibitions, and
Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention people."
"The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the
wedding, and then Paul went off, and, instead of resting
yesterday, I paid a round of calls."
"A wedding?"
"Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married."
"Indeed!"
"We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that
Paul could get his African outfit. The flat belongs to a
cousin of my husband's, and she most kindly offered it to
us. So before the day came we were able to make the
acquaintance of Dolly's people, which we had not yet done."
Margaret asked who Dolly's people were.
"Fussell. The father is in the Indian army--retired;
the brother is in the army. The mother is dead."
So perhaps these were the "chinless sunburnt men" whom
Helen had espied one afternoon through the window. Margaret
felt mildly interested in the fortunes of the Wilcox
family. She had acquired the habit on Helen's account, and
it still clung to her. She asked for more information about
Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and was given it in even,
unemotional tones. Mrs. Wilcox's voice, though sweet and
compelling, had little range of expression. It suggested
that pictures, concerts, and people are all of small and
equal value. Only once had it quickened--when speaking of
Howards End.
"Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some
time. They belong to the same club, and are both devoted to
golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe not so well,
and they first met in a mixed foursome. We all like her,
and are very much pleased. They were married on the 11th, a
few days before Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to
have his brother as best man, so he made a great point of
having it on the 11th. The Fussells would have preferred it
after Christmas, but they were very nice about it. There is
Dolly's photograph--in that double frame."
"Are you quite certain that I'm not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?"
"Yes, quite."
"Then I will stay. I'm enjoying this."
Dolly's photograph was now examined. It was signed "For
dear Mims," which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as "the name she
and Charles had settled that she should call me." Dolly
looked silly, and had one of those triangular faces that so
often prove attractive to a robust man. She was very
pretty. From her Margaret passed to Charles, whose features
prevailed opposite. She speculated on the forces that had
drawn the two together till God parted them. She found time
to hope that they would be happy.
"They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon."
"Lucky people!"
"I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy."
"Doesn't he care for travelling?"
"He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners
so. What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and I
think that would have carried the day if the weather had not
been so abominable. His father gave him a car of his own
for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored
at Howards End."
"I suppose you have a garage there?"
"Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to
the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in what
used to be the paddock for the pony."
The last words had an indescribable ring about them.
"Where's the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a pause.
"The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago." "The wych-elm I
remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree."
"It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your
sister tell you about the teeth?"
"No."
"Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs' teeth stuck
into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. The
country people put them in long ago, and they think that if
they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the toothache.
The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the
tree."
"I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions."
"Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache,
if one believed in it?"
"Of course it did. It would cure anything--once."
"Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards
End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there."
The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed
little more than aimless chatter. She was interested when
her hostess explained that Howards End was her own
property. She was bored when too minute an account was
given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles
concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie,
who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear
being bored. She grew inattentive, played with the
photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly's glass,
apologized, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was
pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all
the housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby's
riding-master.
Then the curious note was struck again.
"Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for
coming. You have cheered me up."
"I'm so glad!"
"I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself.?"
"I think of nothing else," said Margaret, blushing, but
letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.
"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg."
"I'M sure!"
"I almost think--"
"Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a
pause that was somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the
quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, the white blur
from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows.
"I almost think you forget you're a girl."
Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I'm
twenty-nine," she remarked. "That not so wildly girlish."
Mrs. Wilcox smiled.
"What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been
gauche and rude?"
A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one,
and that to me both of you--Read it all in some book or
other; I cannot put things clearly."
"Oh, I've got it--inexperience. I'm no better than
Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her."
"Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word."
"Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet
buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to
learn--absolutely everything--just as much as Helen. Life's
very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I've
got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight
ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember the
submerged--well, one can't do all these things at once,
worse luck, because they're so contradictory. It's then
that proportion comes in--to live by proportion. Don't
BEGIN with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let proportion
come in as a last resource, when the better things have
failed, and a deadlock--Gracious me, I've started preaching!"
"Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly,"
said Mrs. Wilcox, withdrawing her hand into the deeper
shadows. "It is just what I should have liked to say about
them myself."
