Howards End | Page 6

case I can make no plans, don't you see."
"On the contrary--"

"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn't a baby."
"Then in that case, my dear, why go down?"
Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down,
she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I love my dear
sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life." The affections are
more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she
herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would
proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used
the voiceless language of sympathy.
"I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and very wonderful
girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But--you won't be
offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an
older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She
spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go down
to this house whose name I forget instead of you."
"Aunt Juley"--she jumped up and kissed her--"I must, must go to
Howards End myself. You don't exactly understand, though I can never
thank you properly for offering."
"I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go
down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are
necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing;
to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen's happiness you
would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your
impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them."
"I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen's writing that she and a man
are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All
the rest isn't worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries,
questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no."
Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with
something that took the place of both qualities-- something best
described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all

that she encountered in her path through life.
"If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a
penniless clerk--"
"Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good
maids are dusting the banisters."
"--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson,
I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that
convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced
observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added:
"Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very
long engagement indeed, I must say."
"I should think so," said Mrs. Munt; "and, indeed, I can scarcely follow
you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes.
I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine
how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go
slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they
are likely to lead to."
Margaret was down on this.
"But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off."
"I think probably it must; but slowly."
"Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What's an
engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it's made of some hard
stuff that may snap, but can't break. It is different to the other ties of
life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They're different."
"Exactly so. But won't you let me just run down to Howards House,
and save you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so
thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one
quiet look round will be enough for me."

Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to
see her brother.
He was not so well.
The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached,
his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most
unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was
the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary
Conversations she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the
day.
It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must
be assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight. A
telegram to this effect would be cold and