Howards End

absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise."
    Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives.
    "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?"
    Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included."
    Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don’t, Paul. You promised you’d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave.
    Her father kissed her. "Good–bye, old girl," he said; "don’t you worry about me."
    "Good–bye, dad."
    Then it was Dolly’s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good–bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all."
    From Evie came a sharply–drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her.
    And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea.
    "Good–bye."
    "Good–bye, Dolly."
    "So long, father."
    "Good–bye, my boy; always take care of yourself."
    "Good–bye, Mrs. Wilcox."
    "Good–bye."
    Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But Dolly’s remark had interested her. At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?"
    Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled 'Howards End' on a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaret would be to me in the future."
    Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses, and she shivered.
    "I didn’t do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down.
    "You didn’t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong."
    From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at last!" exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of infectious joy.
    "The field’s cut!" Helen cried excitedly—"the big meadow! We’ve seen to the very end, and it’ll be such a crop of hay as never!"
    WEYBRIDGE, 1908–1910.

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