Howards End

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 appalling 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. Delightful."
    "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded 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 reprising 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 scathing 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 remains 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 censured. 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 niche. The furniture fitted extraordinarily 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 ingenuity! Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had