Howards End E. M. Forster (best summer reads of all time .TXT) 📖

“She’s just one of the crew at the farm. People like that always assume things. She assumed you’d know who she was. She left all the Howards End keys in the front lobby, and assumed that you’d seen them as you came in, that you’d lock up the house when you’d done, and would bring them on down to her. And there was her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack of education makes people very casual. Hilton was full of women like Miss Avery once.”

“I shouldn’t have disliked it, perhaps.”

“Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present,” said Dolly.

Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was destined to learn a good deal.

“But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his grandmother.”

“As usual, you’ve got the story wrong, my good Dorothea.”

“I meant great-grandmother⁠—the one who left Mrs. Wilcox the house. Weren’t both of them and Miss Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a farm?”

Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead wife was curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic past. Dolly was⁠—for the following reason.

“Then hadn’t Mrs. Wilcox a brother⁠—or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he popped the question, and Miss Avery, she said ‘No.’ Just imagine, if she’d said ‘Yes,’ she would have been Charles’s aunt. (Oh, I say, that’s rather good! ‘Charlie’s Aunt’! I must chaff him about that this evening.) And the man went out and was killed. Yes, I’m certain I’ve got it right now. Tom Howard⁠—he was the last of them.”

“I believe so,” said Mr. Wilcox negligently.

“I say! Howards End⁠—Howards Ended!” cried Dolly. “I’m rather on the spot this evening, eh?”

“I wish you’d ask whether Crane’s ended.”

“Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?”

“Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go⁠—Dolly’s a good little woman,” he continued, “but a little of her goes a long way. I couldn’t live near her if you paid me.”

Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox could live near, or near the possessions of, any other Wilcox. They had the colonial spirit, and were always making for some spot where the white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course, Howards End was impossible, so long as the younger couple were established in Hilton. His objections to the house were plain as daylight now.

Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the garage, where their car had been trickling muddy water over Charles’s. The downpour had surely penetrated the Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless civilisation. “Curious mounds,” said Henry, “but in with you now; another time.” He had to be up in London by seven⁠—if possible, by six-thirty. Once more she lost the sense of space; once more trees, houses, people, animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness, and she was at Wickham Place.

Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motorcars, and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of all earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards End, she attempted to realise England. She failed⁠—visions do not come when we try, though they may come through trying. But an unexpected love of the island awoke in her, connecting on this side with the joys of the flesh, on that with the inconceivable. Helen and her father had known this love, poor Leonard Bast was groping after it, but it had been hidden from Margaret till this afternoon. It had certainly come through the house and old Miss Avery. Through them: the notion of “through” persisted; her mind trembled towards a conclusion which only the unwise have put into words. Then, veering back into warmth, it dwelt on ruddy bricks, flowering plum-trees, and all the tangible joys of spring.

Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her over his property, and had explained to her the use and dimensions of the various rooms. He had sketched the history of the little estate. “It is so unlucky,” ran the monologue, “that money wasn’t put into it about fifty years ago. Then it had four⁠—five⁠—times the land⁠—thirty acres at least. One could have made something out of it then⁠—a small park, or at all events shrubberies, and rebuilt the house farther away from the road. What’s the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing but the meadow left, and even that was heavily mortgaged when I first had to do with things⁠—yes, and the house too. Oh, it was no joke.” She saw two women as he spoke, one old, the other young, watching their inheritance melt away. She saw them greet him as a deliverer. “Mismanagement did it⁠—besides, the days for small farms are over. It doesn’t pay⁠—except with intensive cultivation. Small holdings, back to the land⁠—ah! philanthropic bunkum. Take it as a rule that nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see” (they were standing at an upper window, the only one which faced west) “belongs to the people at the Park⁠—they made their pile over copper⁠—good chaps. Avery’s Farm, Sishe’s⁠—what they call the Common, where you see that ruined oak⁠—one after the other fell in, and so did this, as near as is no matter.” But Henry had saved it as near as is no matter, without fine feelings or deep insight, but he had saved it, and she loved him for the deed. “When I had more control I did what I could⁠—sold off the two and a half animals, and the mangy pony, and the superannuated tools; pulled down the outhouses; drained; thinned out I don’t know how many guelder-roses and elder-trees; and inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a hall, and made