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 her husband and Helen, 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--O lud, who's that coming down the stairs? I vow 'tis
my brother. O crimini!"
A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the
foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the
civilised, 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 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
luggages 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 accuse 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. So 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 the 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 scandalised 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 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, apologised,
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's 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."
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