Howards End

sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other’s eyes. The inner life had paid.
    Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing–cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned.
    "Little boy, what do you want?"
    "Please, I am the milk."
    "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply.
    "Yes, please."
    "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it’s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one."
    "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?"
    "Do you? Oh, very well. But we’ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can."
    "Please, I’m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy.
    "The house will be locked up then."
    "In the morning would I bring eggs too?"
    "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?"
    The child hung his head.
    "Well, run away and do it again."
    "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what’s your name? Mine’s Helen."
    "Tom."
    That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return.
    "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we’ve another called Tibby."
    "Mine are lop–eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit.
    "You’re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.—Isn’t he charming?"
    "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers."
    "What do you mean?"
    "I don’t know."
    "Because I probably agree with you."
    "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live."
    "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago."
    "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it."
    "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can’t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I’ve a startling idea."
    "What is it?"
    "Drink some milk to steady you."
    Margaret obeyed.
    "No, I won’t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let’s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing."
    They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn’t you and I camp out in this house for the night?"
    "I don’t think we could well do that," said Margaret.
    "Here are beds, tables, towels—"
    "I know; but the house isn’t supposed to be slept in, and Henry’s suggestion was—"
    "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let’s!"
    "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can’t without getting Henry’s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn’t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate."
    "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It’s a moon."
    Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn’t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley’s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it’s his mother’s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for—not Charles."
    "I know he won’t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, 'And she even spent the night at Howards End'?"
    "How do you know you’ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before."
    "Because my plans—"
    "—which you change in a moment."
    "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can’t know of, and so do you. We know that