LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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

Скачать книгу