Her evening was pleasant.The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time.She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars,and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little.She recaptured the sense of space,which is the basis of all earthly beauty,and,starting from Howards End,she attempted to realize England.She failed--visions do not come when we try,though they may come through trying.But an unexpected love of the island awoke in her,connecting on this side with the joys of the flesh,on that with the inconceivable.Helen and her father had known this love,poor Leonard Bast was groping after it,but it had been hidden from Margaret till this afternoon.It had certainly come through the house and old Miss Avery.Through them:the notion of "through"persisted;her mind trembled towards a conclusion which only the unwise have put into words.Then,veering back into warmth,it dwelt on ruddy bricks,flowering plum-trees,and all the tangible joys of,spring.
Henry,after allaying her agitation,had taken her over his property,and had explained to her the use and dimensions of the various rooms.He had sketched the history of the little estate.
"It is so unlucky,"ran the monologue,"that money wasn't put into it about fifty years ago.Then it had four--five-times the land--thirty acres at least.One could have made something out of it then--a small park,or at all events shrubberies,and rebuilt the house farther away from the road.What's the good of taking it in hand now?Nothing but the meadow left,and even that was heavily mortgaged when I first had to do with things--yes,and the house too.Oh,it was no joke."She saw two women as he spoke,one old,the other young,watching their inheritance melt away.She saw them greet him as a deliverer."Mismanagement did it--besides,the days for small farms are over.It doesn't pay--except with intensive cultivation.Small holdings,back to the land--ah!
philanthropic bunkum.Take it as a rule that nothing pays on a small scale.Most of the land you see (they were standing at an upper window,the only one which faced west)belongs to the people at the Park--they made their pile over copper--good chaps.Avery's Farm,Sishe's--what they call the Common,where you see that ruined oak--one after the other fell in,and so did this,as near as is no matter."But Henry had saved it;without fine feelings or deep insight,but he had saved it,and she loved him for the deed."When I had more control I did what Icould:sold off the two and a half animals,and the mangy pony,and the superannuated tools;pulled down the outhouses;drained;thinned out Idon't know how many guelder-roses and elder-trees;and inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a hall,and made a kitchen behind where the dairy was.Garage and so on came later.But one could still tell it's been an old farm.And yet it isn't the place that would fetch one of your artistic crew."No,it wasn't;and if he did not quite understand it,the artistic crew would still less:it was English,and the wych-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree.No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory.It was neither warrior,nor lover,nor god;in none of these roles do the English excel.
It was a comrade,bending over the house,strength and adventure in its roots,but in its utmost fingers tenderness,and the girth,that a dozen men could not have spanned,became in the end evanescent,till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air.It was a comrade.House and tree transcended any similes of sex.Margaret thought of them now,and was to think of them through many a windy night and London day,but to compare either to man,to woman,always dwarfed the vision.
Yet they kept within limits of the human.Their message was not of eternity,but of hope on this side of the grave.As she stood in the one,gazing at the other,truer relationship had gleamed.
Another touch,and the account of her day is finished.
They entered the garden for a minute,and to Mr.Wilcox's surprise she was right.Teeth,pigs'teeth,could be seen in the bark of the wych-elm tree--just the white tips of them showing."Extraordinary!"he cried.
"Who told you?"
"I heard of it one winter in London,"was her answer,for she,too,avoided mentioning Mrs.Wilcox by name.
