The funeral was over. The carriages rolled away through the
soft mud, and only the poor remained. They approached to
the newly-dug shaft and looked their last at the coffin, now
almost hidden beneath the spadefuls of clay. It was their
moment. Most of them were women from the dead woman's
district, to whom black garments had been served out by Mr.
Wilcox's orders. Pure curiosity had brought others. They
thrilled with the excitement of a death, and of a rapid
death, and stood in groups or moved between the graves, like
drops of ink. The son of one of them, a wood-cutter, was
perched high above their heads, pollarding one of the
churchyard elms. From where he sat he could see the village
of Hilton, strung upon the North Road, with its accreting
suburbs; the sunset beyond, scarlet and orange, winking at
him beneath brows of grey; the church; the plantations; and
behind him an unspoilt country of fields and farms. But he,
too, was rolling the event luxuriously in his mouth. He
tried to tell his mother down below all that he had felt
when he saw the coffin approaching: how he could not leave
his work, and yet did not like to go on with it; how he had
almost slipped out of the tree, he was so upset; the rooks
had cawed, and no wonder--it was as if rooks knew too. His
mother claimed the prophetic power herself--she had seen a
strange look about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London had
done the mischief, said others. She had been a kind lady;
her grandmother had been kind, too--a plainer person, but
very kind. Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox, he
was a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic again and
again, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of a rich
person was to them what the funeral of Alcestis or Ophelia
is to the educated. It was Art; though remote from life, it
enhanced life's values, and they witnessed it avidly.
The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent of
disapproval--they disliked Charles; it was not a moment to
speak of such things, but they did not like Charles
Wilcox--the grave-diggers finished their work and piled up
the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton:
the grey brows of the evening flushed a little, and were
cleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering sadly to each
other, the mourners passed through the lych-gate and
traversed the chestnut avenues that led down to the
village. The young wood-cutter stayed a little longer,
poised above the silence and swaying rhythmically. At last
the bough fell beneath his saw. With a grunt, he descended,
his thoughts dwelling no longer on death, but on love, for
he was mating. He stopped as he passed the new grave; a
sheaf of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. "They
didn't ought to have coloured flowers at buryings," he
reflected. Trudging on a few steps, he stopped again,
looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a
chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket.
After him came silence absolute. The cottage that
abutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other house
stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the interment
remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds drifted over
it from the west; or the church may have been a ship,
high-prowed, steering with all its company towards
infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky
clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above
the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning after a
night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it's
a pity I didn't take them all."
Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast.
Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles.
Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfasted
upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in
spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about
to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay
down the morsel untasted.
He remembered his wife's even goodness during thirty
years. Not anything in detail--not courtship or early
raptures--but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to him
a woman's noblest quality. So many women are capricious,
breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his
wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and
mother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her.
Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocence
that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of
worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her
garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of
business--"Henry, why do people who have enough money try to
get more money?" Her idea of politics--"I am sure that if
the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no
more wars." Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud,
but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he
and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the
Church of England. The rector's sermons had at first
repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more
inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby"
(Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he
heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their
three children without dispute. They had never disputed.
She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to
make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of
mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn't you tell me
you knew of it?" he had moaned, and her faint voice had
answered: "I didn't want to, Henry--I might have been
wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of
the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted
during his absence from town. Was this altogether just?
Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on
her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little
fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those
thirty years.
He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for
Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no
one's eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been
steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness
included all praise.
He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in
appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his
son's, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline,
retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained
by a moustache. But there was no external hint of
weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and
goodfellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the
eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was
like Charles's. High and straight, brown and polished,
merging abruptly into temples and skull, it has the effect
of a bastion that protected his head from the world. At
times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt
behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years.
"The post's come, Father," said Evie awkwardly.
"Thanks. Put it down."
"Has the breakfast been all right?"
"Yes, thanks."
The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She
did not know what to do.
"Charles says do you want the TIMES?"
"No, I'll read it later."
"Ring if you want anything, Father, won't you?"
"I've all I want."
Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went
back to the dining-room.
"Father's eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down
with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn--
Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran
quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said: "Look here,
Father, you must eat, you know"; and having paused for a
reply that did not come, stole down again. "He's going to
read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare
say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." Then he
took up the TIMES, and for some time there was no sound
except the clink of cup against saucer and of knife on plate.
Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions,
terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She
was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A telegram
had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed of a woman whom
she had scarcely known. A word from her husband had plunged
her into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as well,
but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could
have died before the marriage, for then less would have been
expected of her. Crumbling her toast, and too nervous to
ask for the butter, she remained almost motionless, thankful
only for this, that her father-in-law was having his
breakfast upstairs.
At last Charles spoke. "They had no business to be
pollarding those elms yesterday," he said to his sister.
"No indeed."
"I must make a note of that," he continued. "I am
surprised that the rector allowed it."
"Perhaps it may not be the rector's affair."
"Whose else could it be?"
"The lord of the manor."
"Impossible."
"Butter, Dolly?"
"Thank you, Evie dear. Charles--"
"Yes, dear?"
"I didn't know one could pollard elms. I thought one
only pollarded willows."
"Oh no, one can pollard elms."
"Then why oughtn't the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?"
Charles frowned a little, and turned again to his
sister. "Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley."
"Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley.
"It's no good him saying he is not responsible for those
men. He is responsible."
"Yes, rather."
Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus,
partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the
mark--a healthy desire in its way--partly because they
avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. It
did not seem to them of supreme importance. Or it may be as
Helen supposed: they realized its importance, but were
afraid of it. Panic and emptiness, could one glance behind.
They were not callous, and they left the breakfast-table
with aching hearts. Their mother never had come in to
breakfast. It was in the other rooms, and especially in the
garden, that they felt her loss most. As Charles went out
to the garage, he was reminded at every step of the woman
who had loved him and whom he could never replace. What
battles he had fought against her gentle conservatism! How
she had disliked improvements, yet how loyally she had
accepted them when made! He and his father--what trouble
they had had to get this very garage! With what difficulty
had they persuaded her to yield them to the paddock for
it--the paddock that she loved more dearly than the garden
itself! The vine--she had got her way about the vine. It
still encumbered the south wall with its unproductive
branches. And so with Evie, as she stood talking to the
cook. Though she could take up her mother's work inside the
house, just as the man could take it up without, she felt
that something unique had fallen out of her life. Their
grief, though less poignant than their father's, grew from
deeper roots, for a wife may be replaced; a mother never.
Charles would go back to the office. There was little
to do at Howards End. The contents of his mother's will had
been long known to them. There were no legacies, no
annuities, none of the posthumous bustle with which some of
the dead prolong their activities. Trusting her husband,
she had left him everything without reserve. She was quite
a poor woman--the house had been all her dowry, and the
house would come to Charles in time. Her water-colours Mr.
Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take
the jewellery and lace. How easily she slipped out of
life! Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did not
intend to adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen
in it an almost culpable indifference to earthly fame.
Cynicism--not the superficial cynicism that snarls and
sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and
tenderness--that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox's will. She
wanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the earth
might freeze over her for ever.
No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could
not go on with his honeymoon, so he would go up to London
and work--he felt too miserable hanging about. He and Dolly
would have the furnished flat while his father rested
quietly in the country with Evie. He could also keep an eye
on his own little house, which was being painted and
decorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which
he hoped to install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he
would go up after lunch in his new motor, and the town
servants, who had come down for the funeral, would go up by train.
He found his father's chauffeur in the garage, said,
"Morning" without looking at the man's face, and, bending
over the car, continued: "Hullo! my new car's been driven!"
"Has it, sir?"
"Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoever's
driven it hasn't cleaned it properly, for there's mud on the
axle. Take it off."
The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a
chauffeur as ugly as sin--not that this did him disservice
with Charles, who thought charm in a man rather rot, and had
soon got rid of the little Italian beast with whom they had started.
"Charles--" His bride was tripping after him over the
hoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face and
elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof.
"One minute, I'm busy. Well, Crane, who's been driving
it, do you suppose?"
"Don't know, I'm sure, sir. No one's driven it since
I've been back, but, of course, there's the fortnight I've
been away with the other car in Yorkshire."
The mud came off easily.
"Charles, your father's down. Something's happened. He
wants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!"
"Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key to the
garage while you were away, Crane?"
"The gardener, sir."
"Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?"
"No, sir; no one's had the motor out, sir."
"Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?"
"I can't, of course, say for the time I've been in
Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir."
Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool,
and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have
reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for
complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he
joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some
incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel.
"Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What
does she want?"
When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what
they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And
the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied,
"She wants Howards End."
"Howards End? Now, Crane, just don't forget to put on
the Stepney wheel."
"No, sir."
"Now, mind you don't forget, for I--Come, little woman."
When they were out of the chauffeur's sight he put his arm
around her waist and pressed her against him. All his
affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her
throughout their happy married life.
"But you haven't listened, Charles--"
"What's wrong?"
"I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegels got
it."
"Got what?" asked Charles, unclasping her. "What the
dickens are you talking about?"
"Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--"
"Look here, I'm in no mood for foolery. It's no morning
for it either."
"I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she's
got it--your mother's left it to her--and you've all got to
move out!"
"HOWARDS END?"
"HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she
did so Evie came dashing out of the shrubbery.
"Dolly, go back at once! My father's much annoyed with
you. Charles"--she hit herself wildly--"come in at once to
Father. He's had a letter that's too awful."
Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped
heavily across the gravel path. There the house was--the
nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels
again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the
matron of the nursing home has written instead of her."
"Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer
inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?"
"Oh, Mr. Wilcox--"
"I told you not to go out to the garage. I've heard you
all shouting in the garden. I won't have it. Come in."
He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand.
"Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can't
discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants.
Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make."
Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed
the procession. The first was a covering note from the
matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral
should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it
was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my
husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have
Howards End."
"I suppose we're going to have a talk about this?" he
remarked, ominously calm.
"Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--"
"Well, let's sit down."
"Come, Evie, don't waste time, sit down."
In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The
events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning--suddenly
receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to
have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were
calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read
the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother's handwriting,
in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside: 'I
should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.'
No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that
nursing home. Now, the question is--"
Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn't
legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely."
Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps
appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not
yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see
the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who
said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once
exclaimed: "Why, it's only in pencil! I said so. Pencil
never counts."
"We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said
Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are
aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it
up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we
consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if
you do not interfere with what you do not understand."
Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then
repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the
breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could
draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether
Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away,
whether she unduly--" He stopped.
"I don't think that," said his father, whose nature was
nobler than his son's
"Don't think what?"
"That she would have--that it is a case of undue
influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the
invalid's condition at the time she wrote."
"My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I
don't admit it is my mother's writing."
"Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly.
"Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue."
The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her
handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one
noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two
men were gradually assuming the manner of the
committee-room. They were both at their best when serving
on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling
human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by
item, sharply. Calligraphy was the item before them now,
and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles,
after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and
they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps
the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average
human article, and had they considered the note as a whole
it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item
by item, the emotional content was minimized, and all went
forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed
higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in
through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky,
and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid,
fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It
was a glorious winter morning. Evie's fox terrier, who had
passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense
was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but
the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian
darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had
been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and
confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the
discussion moved towards its close.
To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when
the commentator should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to
have offered their home to Margaret? I think not. The
appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been
written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden
friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman's intentions
in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as that
nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a
house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit,
for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one
step farther in these mists--may they not have decided even
better than they supposed? Is it credible that the
possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the
soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with
dew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted where
there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be
blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not
even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting that
after due debate they should tear the note up and throw it
on to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist may
acquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may
acquit them--almost. For one hard fact remains. They did
neglect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did say
to them, "Do this," and they answered, "We will not."
The incident made a most painful impression on them.
Grief mounted into the brain and worked there
disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: "She was a dear
mother, a true wife: in our absence she neglected her health
and died." Today they thought: "She was not as true, as
dear, as we supposed." The desire for a more inward light
had found expression at last, the unseen had impacted on the
seen, and all that they could say was "Treachery." Mrs.
Wilcox had been treacherous to the family, to the laws of
property, to her own written word. How did she expect
Howards End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her
husband, to whom it legally belonged, to make it over to her
as a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have a life
interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there to be no
compensation for the garage and other improvements that they
had made under the assumption that all would be theirs some
day? Treacherous! treacherous and absurd! When we think
the dead both treacherous and absurd, we have gone far
towards reconciling ourselves to their departure. That
note, scribbled in pencil, sent through the matron, was
unbusinesslike as well as cruel, and decreased at once the
value of the woman who had written it.
"Ah, well!" said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. "I
shouldn't have thought it possible."
"Mother couldn't have meant it," said Evie, still frowning.
"No, my girl, of course not."
"Mother believed so in ancestors too--it isn't like her
to leave anything to an outsider, who'd never appreciate. "
"The whole thing is unlike her," he announced. "If Miss
Schlegel had been poor, if she had wanted a house, I could
understand it a little. But she has a house of her own.
Why should she want another? She wouldn't have any use of
Howards End."
"That time may prove," murmured Charles.
"How?" asked his sister.
"Presumably she knows--mother will have told her. She
got twice or three times into the nursing home. Presumably
she is awaiting developments."
"What a horrid woman!" And Dolly, who had recovered,
cried, "Why, she may be coming down to turn us out now!"
Charles put her right. "I wish she would," he said
ominously. "I could then deal with her."
"So could I," echoed his father, who was feeling rather
in the cold. Charles had been kind in undertaking the
funeral arrangements and in telling him to eat his
breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little
dictatorial, and assumed the post of chairman too readily.
"I could deal with her, if she comes, but she won't come.
You're all a bit hard on Miss Schlegel."
"That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though."
"I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I said
at the time, and besides, it is quite apart from this
business. Margaret Schlegel has been officious and tiresome
during this terrible week, and we have all suffered under
her, but upon my soul she's honest. She's not in collusion
with the matron. I'm absolutely certain of it. Nor was she
with the doctor. I'm equally certain of that. She did not
hide anything from us, for up to that very afternoon she was
as ignorant as we are. She, like ourselves, was a dupe--"
He stopped for a moment. "You see, Charles, in her terrible
pain your poor mother put us all in false positions. Paul
would not have left England, you would not have gone to
Italy, nor Evie and I into Yorkshire, if only we had known.
Well, Miss Schlegel's position has been equally false. Take
all in all, she has not come out of it badly."
Evie said: "But those chrysanthemums--"
"Or coming down to the funeral at all--" echoed Dolly.
"Why shouldn't she come down? She had the right to, and
she stood far back among the Hilton women. The
flowers--certainly we should not have sent such flowers, but
they may have seemed the right thing to her, Evie, and for
all you know they may be the custom in Germany. "
"Oh, I forget she isn't really English," cried Evie.
"That would explain a lot."
"She's a cosmopolitan," said Charles, looking at his
watch. "I admit I'm rather down on cosmopolitans. My
fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, and a German
cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that's about all, isn't
it? I want to run down and see Chalkeley. A bicycle will
do. And, by the way, I wish you'd speak to Crane some
time. I'm certain he's had my new car out."
"Has he done it any harm?"
"No."
"In that case I shall let it pass. It's not worth while
having a row."
Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they
always parted with an increased regard for one another, and
each desired no doughtier comrade when it was necessary to
voyage for a little past the emotions. So the sailors of
Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first stopped one
another's ears with wool.
