Howards End by E. M. Forster (best book recommendations .TXT) 📕

stipulated for champagne as part of their fee, and who were already drinking beer. Scents of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled with cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it happened at Wickham Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down the cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. “We shall never get through it!” she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had again jumped out of the car while it was moving.

Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an establishment. She must remain herself, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to create new sanctities among these hills.

After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it. Everything went like one o’clock. Mr. Cahill materialised out of space, and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie’s train, or cried. In a few minutes the clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by the lychgate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time on other business.

There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair⁠—not as big as Margaret’s would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of Sunday church and foxhunting. If only someone had been upset! But this wedding had gone off so particularly well⁠—“quite like a durbar” in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her.

So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. “I think it did go off well,” she agreed. “Since I had to jump out of the motor, I’m thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale.”

“I know,” he said gravely. “Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley’s, or even to go to some hotel.”

“You desire a hotel?”

“Yes, because⁠—well, I mustn’t interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home.”

“My old home’s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn’t it a perfect evening⁠—”

“The Alexandrina isn’t bad⁠—”

“The Alexandrina,” she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey.

“It’s off Curzon Street.”

“Is it? Let’s be married from off Curzon Street.”

Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles’s bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A parlourmaid was preceding them.

“Who are those people?” she asked.

“They’re callers!” exclaimed Henry. “It’s too late for callers.”

“Perhaps they’re town people who want to see the wedding presents.”

“I’m not at home yet to townees.”

“Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will.”

He thanked her.

Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the group was Helen⁠—Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery days.

“What is it?” she called. “Oh, what’s wrong? Is Tibby ill?”

Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward furiously.

“They’re starving!” she shouted. “I found them starving!”

“Who? Why have you come?”

“The Basts.”

“Oh, Helen!” moaned Margaret. “Whatever have you done now?”

“He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he’s done for. We upper classes