Howards End

without, she felt that something unique had fallen out of her life. Their grief, though less poignant than their father’s, grew from deeper roots, for a wife may be replaced; a mother never. Charles would go back to the office. There was little at Howards End. The contents of his mother’s will had long been known to them. There were no legacies, no annuities, none of the posthumous bustle with which some of the dead prolong their activities. Trusting her husband, she had left him everything without reserve. She was quite a poor woman—the house had been all her dowry, and the house would come to Charles in time. Her watercolours Mr. Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery and lace. How easily she slipped out of life! Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend to adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen in it an almost culpable indifference to earthly fame. Cynicism—not the superficial cynicism that snarls and sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and tenderness—that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox’s will. She wanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the earth might freeze over her for ever.
    No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could not go on with his honeymoon, so he would go up to London and work—he felt too miserable hanging about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He could also keep an eye on his own little house, which was being painted and decorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch in his new motor, and the town servants, who had come down for the funeral, would go up by train.
    He found his father’s chauffeur in the garage, said "Morning" without looking at the man’s face, and bending over the car, continued: "Hullo! my new car’s been driven!"
    "Has it, sir?"
    "Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoever’s driven it hasn’t cleaned it properly, for there’s mud on the axle. Take it off."
    The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly as sin—not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm in a man rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with whom they had started.
    "Charles—" His bride was tripping after him over the hoar–frost, a dainty black column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof.
    "One minute, I’m busy. Well, Crane, who’s been driving it, do you suppose?"
    "Don’t know, I’m sure, sir. No one’s driven it since I’ve been back, but, of course, there’s the fortnight I’ve been away with the other car in Yorkshire."
    The mud came off easily.
    "Charles, your father’s down. Something’s happened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!"
    "Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were away, Crane?"
    "The gardener, sir."
    "Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?"
    "No, sir; no one’s had the motor out, sir."
    "Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?"
    "I can’t, of course, say for the time I’ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir."
    Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel.
    "Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?"
    When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End."
    "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don’t forget to put on the Stepney wheel."
    "No, sir."
    "Now, mind you don’t forget, for I—Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur’s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention—it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life.
    "But you haven’t listened, Charles."
    "What’s wrong?"
    "I keep on telling you—Howards End. Miss Schlegel’s got it."
    "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?"
    "Now, Charles, you promised not so say those