Howards End - E. M. Forster (world of reading .txt) 📗

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 deathbed 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 his 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 realised 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 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 at Howards End. The contents of his mother’s will had long been 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 watercolours 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 forever.

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 hoarfrost, 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