The day of her visit was exquisite1, and the last of unclouded happiness that she was to have for many months. Her anxiety about Helen's extraordinary absence was still dormant2, and as for a possible brush with Miss Avery--that only gave zest3 to the expedition. She had also eluded4 Dolly's invitation to luncheon5. Walking straight up from the station, she crossed the village green and entered the long chestnut6 avenue that connects it with the church. The church itself stood in the village once. But it there attracted so many worshippers that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from its foundations, and poised7 it on an inconvenient8 knoll9, three-quarters of a mile away. If this story is true, the chestnut avenue must have been planted by the angels. No more tempting10 approach could be imagined for the luke-warm Christian11, and if he still finds the walk too long, the devil is defeated all the same, Science having built Holy Trinity, a Chapel12 of Ease, near the Charles', and roofed it with tin.
Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to watch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches of the chestnuts13, or to finger the little horseshoes on the lower branches. Why has not England a great mythology14? Our folklore15 has never advanced beyond daintiness, and the greater melodies about our country-side have all issued through the pipes of Greece. Deep and true as the native imagination can be, it seems to have failed here. It has stopped with the witches and the fairies. It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer field, or give names to half a dozen stars. England still waits for the supreme16 moment of her literature--for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still, for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass into our common talk.
At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut avenue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which led into the untouched country. She followed it for over a mile. Its little hesitations17 pleased her. Having no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, nor about the view, which nevertheless expanded. The great estates that throttle18 the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive19 here, and the appearance of the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban20. To define it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not: it was not snobbish21. Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain22, and the distant brow of the Chilterns towered like a mountain. "Left to itself," was Margaret's opinion, "this county would vote Liberal." The comradeship, not passionate23, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for the key.
But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by: "Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes, 'Where's auntie?' I say, 'Need you ask? She's at Howards End.' Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?"
Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this acquired her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery's niece.
"I cannot let you go on alone. Now don't. You really mustn't. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now"--roguishly--"Mrs. Wilcox, don't you move while I'm gone."
Stunned24, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar25 sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables26 on the budding guelder-rose. Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily27 and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect--connect without bitterness until all men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery's niece, and were so tranquillizing that she suffered the interruption gladly.
It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was now mortified28 by unnumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal29 sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered30 at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering31 the straw and ruffling32 the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie's pendant. One of those delicious gales33 of spring, in which leaves stiff in bud seem to rustle34, swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgia," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively35 from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgia, pretty Georgia," and the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses36 in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips37, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb38, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr39 behind.
The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant40 cries of "Auntie!" severed41 the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked.
"Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret.
"Oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily."
Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn42 tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember them being there on her other visit: her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped43 up against them, which looked ominously44 like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded.
"Well, well!" replied someone inside the house. "If it isn't Mrs. Wilcox come at last!"
"Have you got the key, auntie?"
"Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.
"Auntie, it's Mrs. Wilcox--"
Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together--"
"Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat."
The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously45.
"Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly46 let me in?"
"Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately47.
"I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret.
"Well, if you'll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering48 up her elegancies, she retired49 defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once.
Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!" quite pleasantly and calmly.
"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own.
"Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling50 thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father's sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days.
"I'm afraid this isn't what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother's. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much."
"The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman.
Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn't explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake."
"Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox's, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer."
To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said:
"Yes, Mrs. Wilcox's house, the mother of Mr. Charles."
"Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake."
"Well, I don't know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don't know what's to be done." She could not help laughing.
The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough."
"I don't know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that's all right. Delightful51."
"There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room and the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and repassing through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I've not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There's still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton."
"It is all a mistake," repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down. "A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End."
"Oh, indeed. On account of his hay fever?"
"We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing52 wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility.
"You think that you won't come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will."
"That remains53 to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. "We have no intention of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?"
Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don't talk about some day. You are living here now."
"Am I?"
"You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me."
It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured54. They went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother's chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche55. The furniture fitted extraordinarily56 well. In the central room--over the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years ago--Miss Avery had placed Tibby's old bassinette.
"The nursery," she said.
Margaret turned away without speaking.
At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far as she could make out, nothing had been broken or scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity57! Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel58 sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws59 of the garage. And Evie's rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery's oddness. But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl's silly letter had but loosed the irritation60 of years.
"It's a beautiful meadow," she remarked. It was one of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So the boundary hedge zigzagged61 down the hill at right angles, and at the bottom there was a little green annex--a sort of powder-closet for the cows.
"Yes, the maidy's well enough," said Miss Avery, "for those that is, who don't suffer from sneezing." And she cackled maliciously62. "I've seen Charlie Wilcox go out to my lads in hay time--oh, they ought to do this--they mustn't do that--he'd learn them to be lads. And just then the tickling63 took him. He has it from his father, with other things. There's not one Wilcox that can stand up against a field in June--I laughed fit to burst while he was courting Ruth."
"My brother gets hay fever too," said Margaret.
"This house lies too much on the land for them. Naturally, they were glad enough to slip in at first. But Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see you've found."
Margaret laughed.
"They keep a place going, don't they? Yes, it is just that."
"They keep England going, it is my opinion."
But Miss Avery upset her by replying: "Ay, they breed like rabbits. Well, well, it's a funny world. But He who made it knows what He wants in it, I suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn't for us to repine."
"They breed and they also work," said Margaret, conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. "It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like my husband and his sons govern it, I think it'll never be a bad one--never really bad."
"No, better'n nothing," said Miss Avery, and turned to the wych-elm.
On their way back to the farm she spoke64 of her old friend much more clearly than before. In the house Margaret had wondered whether she quite distinguished65 the first wife from the second. Now she said: "I never saw much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we stayed civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs. Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let anyone be turned away without food. Then it was never 'Trespassers will be prosecuted66' in their land, but would people please not come in. Mrs. Howard was never created to run a farm."
"Had they no men to help them?" Margaret asked.
Miss Avery replied: "Things went on until there were no men."
"Until Mr. Wilcox came along," corrected Margaret, anxious that her husband should receive his dues.
"I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a--no disrespect to you to say this, for I take it you were intended to get Wilcox any way, whether she got him first or no."
"Whom should she have married?"
"A soldier!" exclaimed the old woman. "Some real soldier."
Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry's character far more trenchant67 than any of her own. She felt dissatisfied.
"But that's all over," she went on. "A better time is coming now, though you've kept me long enough waiting. In a couple of weeks I'll see your lights shining through the hedge of an evening. Have you ordered in coals?"
"We are not coming," said Margaret firmly. She respected Miss Avery too much to humour her. "No. Not coming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake. The furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry but I am making other arrangements, and must ask you to give me the keys."
"Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties with a smile.
Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her compliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the station. She had intended to go to the furniture warehouse68 and give directions for removal, but the muddle69 had turned out more extensive than she expected, so she decided70 to consult Henry. It was as well that she did this. He was strongly against employing the local man whom he had previously71 recommended, and advised her to store in London after all.
But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her.
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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folklore
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| n.民间信仰，民间传说，民俗 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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51
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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52
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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53
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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54
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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61
zigzagged
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| adj.呈之字形移动的v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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63
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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64
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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65
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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66
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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67
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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68
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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69
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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70
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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71
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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