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 son still—”
“Oh no; he often—my Paul is very young, you see.”
“Then what was it?”
She repeated: “An instinct which may be wrong.”
“In other words, they belong to types that can fall in love, but couldn’t live together. That’s dreadfully probable. I’m afraid that in nine cases out of ten Nature pulls one way and human nature another.”
“These are indeed ‘other words,’ ” said Mrs. Wilcox. “I had nothing so coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed when I knew that my boy cared for your sister.”
“Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How DID you know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt drove up, and you stepped forward and arranged things. Did Paul tell you?”
“There is nothing to be gained by discussing that,” said Mrs. Wilcox after a moment’s pause.
“Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I wrote you a letter and you didn’t answer it.”
“I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson’s flat. I knew it was opposite your house.”
“But it’s all right now?”
“I think so.”
“You only think? You aren’t sure? I do love these little muddles tidied up?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with uneasiness beneath the clothes. “I always sound uncertain over things. It is my way of speaking.”
“That’s all right, and I’m sure, too.”
Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. They were interrupted, and when they resumed conversation it was on more normal lines.
“I must say good-bye now—you will be getting up.”
“No—please stop a little longer—I am taking a day in bed. Now and then I do.”
“I thought of you as one of the early risers.”
“At Howards End—yes; there is nothing to get up for in London.”
“Nothing to get up for?” cried the scandalised Margaret. “When there are all the autumn exhibitions, and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention people.”
“The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the wedding, and then Paul went off, and, instead of resting yesterday, I paid a round of calls.”
“A wedding?”
“Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married.”
“Indeed!”
“We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that Paul could get his African outfit. The flat belongs to a cousin of my husband’s, and she most kindly offered it to us. So before the day came we were able to make the acquaintance of Dolly’s people, which we had not yet done.”
Margaret asked who Dolly’s people were.
“Fussell. The father is in the Indian army—retired; the brother is in the army. The mother is dead.”
So perhaps these were the “chinless sunburnt men” whom Helen had espied one afternoon through the window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on Helen’s account, and it still clung to her. She asked for more information about Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs. Wilcox’s voice, though sweet and compelling, had little range of expression. It suggested that pictures, concerts, and people are all of small and equal value. Only once had it quickened—when speaking of Howards End.
“Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some time. They belong to the same club, and are both devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe not so well; and they first met in a
