Howards End, E. M. Forster [fox in socks read aloud TXT] 📗

“Hilton isn’t without us,” he replied. “Charles is there still.”

“Still?” said Margaret, who had not kept up with the Charles’s. “But I thought he was still at Epsom. They were furnishing that Christmas⁠—one Christmas. How everything alters! I used to admire Mrs. Charles from our windows very often. Wasn’t it Epsom?”

“Yes, but they moved eighteen months ago. Charles, the good chap”⁠—his voice dropped⁠—“thought I should be lonely. I didn’t want him to move, but he would, and took a house at the other end of Hilton, down by the Six Hills. He had a motor, too. There they all are, a very jolly party⁠—he and she and the two grandchildren.”

“I manage other people’s affairs so much better than they manage them themselves,” said Margaret as they shook hands. “When you moved out of Howards End, I should have moved Mr. Charles Wilcox into it. I should have kept so remarkable a place in the family.”

“So it is,” he replied. “I haven’t sold it, and don’t mean to.”

“No; but none of you are there.”

“Oh, we’ve got a splendid tenant⁠—Hamar Bryce, an invalid. If Charles ever wanted it⁠—but he won’t. Dolly is so dependent on modern conveniences. No, we have all decided against Howards End. We like it in a way, but now we feel that it is neither one thing nor the other. One must have one thing or the other.”

“And some people are lucky enough to have both. You’re doing yourself proud, Mr. Wilcox. My congratulations.”

“And mine,” said Helen.

“Do remind Evie to come and see us⁠—2 Wickham Place. We shan’t be there very long, either.”

“You, too, on the move?”

“Next September,” Margaret sighed.

“Everyone moving! Goodbye.”

The tide had begun to ebb. Margaret leant over the parapet and watched it sadly. Mr. Wilcox had forgotten his wife, Helen her lover; she herself was probably forgetting. Everyone moving. Is it worth while attempting the past when there is this continual flux even in the hearts of men?

Helen roused her by saying: “What a prosperous vulgarian Mr. Wilcox has grown! I have very little use for him in these days. However, he did tell us about the Porphyrion. Let us write to Mr. Bast as soon as ever we get home, and tell him to clear out of it at once.”

“Do; yes, that’s worth doing. Let us.”

Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday. But he was right; the visit proved a conspicuous failure.

“Sugar?” said Margaret.

“Cake?” said Helen. “The big cake or the little deadlies? I’m afraid you thought my letter rather odd, but we’ll explain⁠—we aren’t odd, really⁠—nor affected, really. We’re over-expressive⁠—that’s all.”

As a lady’s lapdog Leonard did not excel. He was not an Italian, still less a Frenchman, in whose blood there runs the very spirit of persiflage and of gracious repartee. His wit was the Cockney’s; it opened no doors into imagination, and Helen was drawn up short by “The more a lady has to say, the better,” administered waggishly.

“Oh yes,” she said.

“Ladies brighten⁠—”

“Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. Let me give you a plate.”

“How do you like your work?” interposed Margaret.

He, too, was drawn up short. He would not have these women prying into his work. They were Romance, and so was the room to which he had at last penetrated, with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its walls, and so were the very teacups, with their delicate borders of wild strawberries. But he would not let romance interfere with his life. There is the devil to pay then.

“Oh, well enough,” he answered.

“Your company is the Porphyrion, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s so.”⁠—becoming rather offended. “It’s funny how things get round.”

“Why funny?” asked Helen, who did not follow the workings of his mind. “It was written as large as life on your card, and considering we wrote to you there, and that you replied on the stamped paper⁠—”

“Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big Insurance Companies?” pursued Margaret.

“It depends on what you call big.”

“I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern, that offers a reasonably good career to its employes.”

“I couldn’t say⁠—some would tell you one thing and others another,” said the employee uneasily. “For my own part”⁠—he shook his head⁠—“I only believe half I hear. Not that even; it’s safer. Those clever ones come to the worse grief, I’ve often noticed. Ah, you can’t be too careful.”

He drank, and wiped his moustache, which was going to be one of those moustaches that always droop into teacups⁠—more bother than they’re worth, surely, and not fashionable either.

“I quite agree, and that’s why I was curious to know; is it a solid, well-established concern?”

Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner of the machine, but nothing beyond it. He desired to confess neither knowledge nor ignorance, and under these circumstances, another motion of the head seemed safest. To him, as to the British public, the Porphyrion was the Porphyrion of the advertisement⁠—a giant, in the classical style, but draped sufficiently, who held in one hand a burning torch, and pointed with the other to St. Paul’s and Windsor Castle. A large sum of money was inscribed below, and you drew your own conclusions. This giant caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write letters, to explain the regulations to new clients, and re-explain them to old ones. A giant was of an impulsive morality⁠—one knew that much. He would pay for Mrs. Munt’s hearthrug with ostentatious haste, a large claim he would repudiate quietly, and fight court by court. But his true fighting weight, his antecedents, his amours with other members of the commercial Pantheon⁠—all these were as uncertain to ordinary mortals as were the escapades of Zeus. While the gods are powerful, we learn little about them. It is only in the days of their decadence that a strong light beats into heaven.

“We were told the Porphyrion’s no go,” blurted Helen. “We wanted to tell you; that’s why we wrote.”

“A friend of ours did think that it is insufficiently reinsured,” said Margaret.

Now Leonard had his clue.

He