CHAPTER XXXIII

cox,couldIprevailuponyoutoacceptapieceofcake?NotifIcutitforyou?” Margaretrefusedthecake,butunfortunatelythisgavehergentilityintheeyesofMissAvery’sniece. “Icannotletyougoonalone.Nowdon’t.Youreallymustn’t.Iwilldirectyoumyselfifitcomestothat.Imustgetmyhat.Now”—roguishly—“Mrs.Wilcox,don’tyoumovewhileI’mgone.” Stunned,Margaretdidnotmovefromthebestparlour,overwhichthetouchofartnouveauhadfallen.Buttheotherroomslookedinkeeping,thoughtheyconveyedthepeculiarsadnessofaruralinterior.Herehadlivedanelderrace,towhichwelookbackwithdisquietude.Thecountrywhichwevisitatweek-endswasreallyahometoit,andthegraversidesoflife,thedeaths,thepartings,theyearningsforlove,havetheirdeepestexpressionintheheartofthefields.Allwasnotsadness.Thesunwasshiningwithout.Thethrushsanghistwosyllablesonthebuddingguelder-rose.Somechildrenwereplayinguproariouslyinheapsofgoldenstraw.ItwasthepresenceofsadnessatallthatsurprisedMargaret,andendedbygivingherafeelingofcompleteness.IntheseEnglishfarms,ifanywhere,onemightseelifesteadilyandseeitwhole,groupinonevisionitstransitorinessanditseternalyouth,connect—connectwithoutbitternessuntilallmenarebrothers.ButherthoughtswereinterruptedbythereturnofMissAvery’sniece,andweresotranquillisingthatshesufferedtheinterruptiongladly. Itwasquickertogooutbythebackdoor,and,afterdueexplanations,theywentoutbyit.Theniecewasnowmortifiedbyinnumerablechickens,whorusheduptoherfeetforfood,andbyashamelessandmaternalsow.Shedidnotknowwhatanimalswerecomingto.Buthergentilitywitheredatthetouchofthesweetair.Thewindwasrising,scatteringthestrawandrufflingthetailsoftheducksastheyfloatedinfamiliesoverEvie’spendant.Oneofthosedeliciousgalesofspring,inwhichleavesstillinbudseemtorustle,sweptoverthelandandthenfellsilent.“Georgie,”sangthethrush.“Cuckoo,”camefurtivelyfromthecliffofpine-trees.“Georgie,prettyGeorgie,”andtheotherbirdsjoinedinwithnonsense.Thehedgewasahalf-paintedpicturewhichwouldbefinishedinafewdays.Celandinesgrewonitsbanks,lordsandladiesandprimrosesinthedefendedhollowsthewildrose-bushes,stillbearingtheirwitheredhips,showedalsothepromiseofblossom.Springhadcome,cladinnoclassicalgarb,yetfairerthanallspringsfairereventhanshewhowalksthroughthemyrtlesofTuscanywiththegracesbeforeherandthezephyrbehind. Thetwowomenwalkedupthelanefullofoutwardcivility.ButMargaretwasthinkinghowdifficultitwastobeearnestaboutfurnitureonsuchaday,andtheniecewasthinkingabouthats.Thusengaged,theyreachedHowardsEnd.Petulantcriesof“Auntie!”severedtheair.Therewasnoreply,andthefrontdoorwaslocked. “AreyousurethatMissAveryisuphere?”askedMargaret. “Oh,yes,Mrs.Wilcox,quitesure.Sheisheredaily.” Margarettriedtolookinthroughthedining-roomwindow,butthecurtaininsidewasdrawntightly.Sowiththedrawing-roomandthehall.Theappearanceofthesecurtainswasfamiliar,yetshedidnotremembertheirbeingthereonherothervisitherimpre