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Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 30
Tibby was now approaching his last year at Oxford.
He had moved out of college, and was contemplating the Universe, or such
portions of it as concerned him, from his comfortable lodgings in Long Wall.
He was not concerned with much.
When a young man is untroubled by passions and sincerely indifferent to public
opinion, his outlook is necessarily limited.
Tibby neither wished to strengthen the position of the rich nor to improve that of
the poor, and so was well content to watch the elms nodding behind the mildly
embattled parapets of Magdalen.
There are worse lives. Though selfish, he was never cruel; though
affected in manner, he never posed.
Like Margaret, he disdained the heroic equipment, and it was only after many
visits that men discovered Schlegel to possess a character and a brain.
He had done well in Mods, much to the surprise of those who attended lectures and
took proper exercise, and was now glancing disdainfully at Chinese in case he should
some day consent to qualify as a Student Interpreter.
To him thus employed Helen entered. A telegram had preceded her.
He noticed, in a distant way, that his sister had altered.
As a rule he found her too pronounced, and had never come across this look of appeal,
pathetic yet dignified--the look of a sailor who has lost everything at sea.
"I have come from Oniton," she began.
"There has been a great deal of trouble there."
"Who's for lunch?" said Tibby, picking up the claret, which was warming in the
hearth.
Helen sat down submissively at the table. "Why such an early start?" he asked.
"Sunrise or something--when I could get away."
"So I surmise. Why?"
"I don't know what's to be done, Tibby. I am very much upset at a piece of news
that concerns Meg, and do not want to face her, and I am not going back to Wickham
Place.
I stopped here to tell you this." The landlady came in with the cutlets.
Tibby put a marker in the leaves of his Chinese Grammar and helped them.
Oxford--the Oxford of the vacation--dreamed and rustled outside, and indoors the little
fire was coated with grey where the sunshine touched it.
Helen continued her odd story.
"Give Meg my love and say that I want to be alone.
I mean to go to Munich or else Bonn." "Such a message is easily given," said her
brother.
"As regards Wickham Place and my share of the furniture, you and she are to do
exactly as you like. My own feeling is that everything may just
as well be sold.
What does one want with dusty economic, books, which have made the world no better,
or with mother's hideous chiffoniers? I have also another commission for you.
I want you to deliver a letter."
She got up. "I haven't written it yet.
Why shouldn't I post it, though?" She sat down again.
"My head is rather wretched.
I hope that none of your friends are likely to come in."
Tibby locked the door. His friends often found it in this
condition.
Then he asked whether anything had gone wrong at Evie's wedding.
"Not there," said Helen, and burst into tears.
He had known her hysterical--it was one of her aspects with which he had no concern--
and yet these tears touched him as something unusual.
They were nearer the things that did concern him, such as music.
He laid down his knife and looked at her curiously.
Then, as she continued to sob, he went on with his lunch.
The time came for the second course, and she was still crying.
Apple Charlotte was to follow, which spoils by waiting.
"Do you mind Mrs. Martlett coming in?" he asked, "or shall I take it from her at the
door?"
"Could I bathe my eyes, Tibby?" He took her to his bedroom, and introduced
the pudding in her absence. Having helped himself, he put it down to
warm in the hearth.
His hand stretched towards the Grammar, and soon he was turning over the pages, raising
his eyebrows scornfully, perhaps at human nature, perhaps at Chinese.
To him thus employed Helen returned.
She had pulled herself together, but the grave appeal had not vanished from her
eyes. "Now for the explanation," she said.
"Why didn't I begin with it?
I have found out something about Mr. Wilcox.
He has behaved very wrongly indeed, and ruined two people's lives.
It all came on me very suddenly last night; I am very much upset, and I do not know
what to do. Mrs. Bast--"
"Oh, those people!"
Helen seemed silenced. "Shall I lock the door again?"
"No, thanks, Tibbikins. You're being very good to me.
I want to tell you the story before I go abroad.
You must do exactly what you like--treat it as part of the furniture.
Meg cannot have heard it yet, I think.
But I cannot face her and tell her that the man she is going to marry has misconducted
himself. I don't even know whether she ought to be
told.
Knowing as she does that I dislike him, she will suspect me, and think that I want to
ruin her match. I simply don't know what to make of such a
thing.
I trust your judgment. What would you do?"
"I gather he has had a mistress," said Tibby.
Helen flushed with shame and anger.
"And ruined two people's lives. And goes about saying that personal actions
count for nothing, and there always will be rich and poor.
He met her when he was trying to get rich out in Cyprus--I don't wish to make him
worse than he is, and no doubt she was ready enough to meet him.
But there it is.
They met. He goes his way and she goes hers.
What do you suppose is the end of such women?"
He conceded that it was a bad business.
"They end in two ways: Either they sink till the lunatic asylums and the workhouses
are full of them, and cause Mr. Wilcox to write letters to the papers complaining of
our national degeneracy, or else they
entrap a boy into marriage before it is too late.
She--I can't blame her.
"But this isn't all," she continued after a long pause, during which the landlady
served them with coffee. "I come now to the business that took us to
Oniton.
We went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox's advice, the man
throws up a secure situation and takes an insecure one, from which he is dismissed.
There are certain excuses, but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to blame, as Meg herself
admitted. It is only common justice that he should
employ the man himself.
But he meets the woman, and, like the cur that he is, he refuses, and tries to get
rid of them. He makes Meg write.
Two notes came from her late that evening-- one for me, one for Leonard, dismissing him
with barely a reason. I couldn't understand.
Then it comes out that Mrs. Bast had spoken to Mr. Wilcox on the lawn while we left her
to get rooms, and was still speaking about him when Leonard came back to her.
This Leonard knew all along.
He thought it natural he should be ruined twice.
Natural! Could you have contained yourself?.
"It is certainly a very bad business," said Tibby.
His reply seemed to calm his sister. "I was afraid that I saw it out of
proportion.
But you are right outside it, and you must know.
In a day or two--or perhaps a week--take whatever steps you think fit.
I leave it in your hands."
She concluded her charge.
"The facts as they touch Meg are all before you," she added; and Tibby sighed and felt
it rather hard that, because of his open mind, he should be empanelled to serve as a
juror.
He had never been interested in human beings, for which one must blame him, but
he had had rather too much of them at Wickham Place.
Just as some people cease to attend when books are mentioned, so Tibby's attention
wandered when "personal relations" came under discussion.
Ought Margaret to know what Helen knew the Basts to know?
Similar questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he had learned to
say that the importance of human beings has been vastly overrated by specialists.
The epigram, with its faint whiff of the eighties, meant nothing.
But he might have let it off now if his sister had not been ceaselessly beautiful.
"You see, Helen--have a cigarette--I don't see what I'm to do."
"Then there's nothing to be done. I dare say you are right.
Let them marry.
There remains the question of compensation."
"Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you not better consult an expert?"
"This part is in confidence," said Helen.
"It has nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her.
The compensation--I do not see who is to pay it if I don't, and I have already
decided on the minimum sum.
As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and when I am in Germany you will
pay it over for me. I shall never forget your kindness,
Tibbikins, if you do this."
"What is the sum?" "Five thousand."
"Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson.
"Now, what is the good of driblets?
To go through life having done one thing-- to have raised one person from the abyss:
not these puny gifts of shillings and blankets--making the grey more grey.
No doubt people will think me extraordinary."
"I don't care a damn what people think!" cried he, heated to unusual manliness of
diction.
"But it's half what you have." "Not nearly half."
She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt.
"I have far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a
year is necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a hundred and
fifty between two.
It isn't enough." He could not recover.
He was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty to
live on.
But it amazed him to think what haycocks people can make of their lives.
His delicate intonations would not work, and he could only blurt out that the five
thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother for him personally.
"I didn't expect you to understand me."
"I? I understand nobody." "But you'll do it?"
"Apparently." "I leave you two commissions, then.
The first concerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion.
The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned to no one, and carried out
literally.
You will send a hundred pounds on account tomorrow."
He walked with her to the station, passing through those streets whose serried beauty
never bewildered him and never fatigued.
The lovely creature raised domes and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the
ganglion of vulgarity round Carfax showed how evanescent was the phantom, how faint
its claim to represent England.
Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed nothing: the Basts were in her brain, and
she retold the crisis in a meditative way, which might have made other men curious.
She was seeing whether it would hold.
He asked her once why she had taken the Basts right into the heart of Evie's
wedding. She stopped like a frightened animal and
said, "Does that seem to you so odd?"
Her eyes, the hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted him, until they were absorbed into
the figure of St. Mary the ***, before whom he paused for a moment on the walk
home.
It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his duties.
Margaret summoned him the next day.
She was terrified at Helen's flight, and he had to say that she had called in at
Oxford. Then she said: "Did she seem worried at any
rumour about Henry?"
He answered, "Yes." "I knew it was that!" she exclaimed.
"I'll write to her." Tibby was relieved.
He then sent the cheque to the address that Helen gave him, and stated that later on he
was instructed to forward five thousand pounds.
An answer came back, very civil and quiet in tone--such an answer as Tibby himself
would have given.
The cheque was returned, the legacy refused, the writer being in no need of
money.
Tibby forwarded this to Helen, adding in the fulness of his heart that Leonard Bast
seemed somewhat a monumental person after all.
Helen's reply was frantic.
He was to take no notice. He was to go down at once and say that she
commanded acceptance. He went.
A scurf of books and china ornaments awaited them.
The Basts had just been evicted for not paying their rent, and had wandered no one
knew whither.
Helen had begun bungling with her money by this time, and had even sold out her shares
in the Nottingham and Derby Railway. For some weeks she did nothing.
Then she reinvested, and, owing to the good advice of her stockbrokers, became rather
richer than she had been before.
>
Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 31
Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the generations of
men, some with a tragic roar, some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of ghosts,
while from others--and thus was the death
of Wickham Place--the spirit slips before the body perishes.
It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating the girls more than they
knew, and causing either to accost unfamiliar regions.
By September it was a corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the
memories of thirty years of happiness.
Through its round-topped doorway passed furniture, and pictures, and books, until
the last room was gutted and the last van had rumbled away.
It stood for a week or two longer, open- eyed, as if astonished at its own
emptiness. Then it fell.
Navvies came, and spilt it back into the grey.
With their muscles and their beery good temper, they were not the worst of
undertakers for a house which had always been human, and had not mistaken culture
for an end.
The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox having
most kindly offered Howards End as a warehouse.
Mr. Bryce had died abroad--an unsatisfactory affair--and as there seemed
little guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, he cancelled the agreement,
and resumed possession himself.
Until he relet the house, the Schlegels were welcome to stack their furniture in
the garage and lower rooms.
Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted the offer gladly; it saved him from coming to
any decision about the future.
The plate and the more valuable pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk
of the things went country-ways, and were entrusted to the guardianship of Miss
Avery.
Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were married.
They have weathered the storm, and may reasonably expect peace.
To have no illusions and yet to love--what stronger surety can a woman find?
She had seen her husband's past as well as his heart.
She knew her own heart with a thoroughness that commonplace people believe impossible.
The heart of Mrs. Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious to
speculate on the feelings of the dead.
They were married quietly--really quietly, for as the day approached she refused to go
through another Oniton.
Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who was out of health, presided over a few
colourless refreshments.
The Wilcoxes were represented by Charles, who witnessed the marriage settlement, and
by Mr. Cahill. Paul did send a cablegram.
In a few minutes, and without the aid of music, the clergyman made them man and
wife, and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts off married couples from the
world.
She, a monogamist, regretted the cessation of some of life's innocent odours; he,
whose instincts were polygamous, felt morally braced by the change, and less
liable to the temptations that had assailed him in the past.
They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck.
Henry knew of a reliable hotel there, and Margaret hoped for a meeting with her
sister. In this she was disappointed.
As they came south, Helen retreated over the Brenner, and wrote an unsatisfactory
postcard from the shores of the Lake of Garda, saying that her plans were uncertain
and had better be ignored.
Evidently she disliked meeting Henry.
Two months are surely enough to accustom an outsider to a situation which a wife has
accepted in two days, and Margaret had again to regret her sister's lack of self-
control.
In a long letter she pointed out the need of charity in *** matters: so little is
known about them; it is hard enough for those who are personally touched to judge;
then how futile must be the verdict of Society.
"I don't say there is no standard, for that would destroy morality; only that there can
be no standard until our impulses are classified and better understood."
Helen thanked her for her kind letter-- rather a curious reply.
She moved south again, and spoke of wintering in Naples.
Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed.
Helen left him time to grow skin over his wound.
There were still moments when it pained him.
Had he only known that Margaret was awaiting him--Margaret, so lively and
intelligent, and yet so submissive--he would have kept himself worthier of her.
Incapable of grouping the past, he confused the episode of Jacky with another episode
that had taken place in the days of his bachelorhood.
The two made one crop of wild oats, for which he was heartily sorry, and he could
not see that those oats are of a darker stock which are rooted in another's
dishonour.
Unchastity and infidelity were as confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only
moral teacher.
Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter into his calculations at all, for poor old Ruth
had never found him out. His affection for his present wife grew
steadily.
Her cleverness gave him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked to see her reading poetry
or something about social questions; it distinguished her from the wives of other
men.
He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and was ready to do what he wished.
Then they would argue so jollily, and once or twice she had him in quite a tight
corner, but as soon as he grew really serious, she gave in.
Man is for war, woman for the recreation of the warrior, but he does not dislike it if
she makes a show of fight. She cannot win in a real battle, having no
muscles, only nerves.
Nerves make her jump out of a moving motor- car, or refuse to be married fashionably.
The warrior may well allow her to triumph on such occasions; they move not the
imperishable plinth of things that touch his peace.
Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the honeymoon.
He told her--casually, as was his habit-- that Oniton Grange was let.
She showed her annoyance, and asked rather crossly why she had not been consulted.
"I didn't want to bother you," he replied. "Besides, I have only heard for certain
this morning."
"Where are we to live?" said Margaret, trying to laugh.
"I loved the place extraordinarily. Don't you believe in having a permanent
home, Henry?"
He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is home life that distinguishes us from
the foreigner. But he did not believe in a damp home.
"This is news.
I never heard till this minute that Oniton was damp."
"My dear girl!"--he flung out his hand-- "have you eyes? have you a skin?
How could it be anything but damp in such a situation?
In the first place, the Grange is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have
been; then there's that destestable little river, steaming all night like a kettle.
Feel the cellar walls; look up under the eaves.
Ask Sir James or anyone. Those Shropshire valleys are notorious.
The only possible place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my part,
I think the country is too far from London, and the scenery nothing special."
Margaret could not resist saying, "Why did you go there, then?"
"I--because--" He drew his head back and grew rather angry.
"Why have we come to the Tyrol, if it comes to that?
One might go on asking such questions indefinitely."
One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer.
Out it came, and he believed it as soon as it was spoken.
"The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie.
Don't let this go any further." "Certainly not."
"I shouldn't like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad bargain.
No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged.
Poor little girl!
She was so keen on it all, and wouldn't even wait to make proper inquiries about
the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up--just like
all of your sex.
Well, no harm's done. She has had her country wedding, and I've
got rid of my house to some fellows who are starting a preparatory school."
"Where shall we live, then, Henry?
I should enjoy living somewhere." "I have not yet decided.
What about Norfolk?" Margaret was silent.
Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux.
London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilization which is altering human nature
so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have
ever borne before.
Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth.
Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that
they once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone.
May Love be equal to the task!
"It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly October.
Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring.
"If possible, something permanent.
I can't be as young as I was, for these alterations don't suit me."
"But, my dear, which would you rather have- -alterations or rheumatism?"
"I see your point," said Margaret, getting up.
"If Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little
Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap.
I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you.
Remember that you have a free hand this time.
These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive."
"What a practical little woman it is!
What's it been reading? Theo--theo--how much?"
"Theosophy." So Ducie Street was her first fate--a
pleasant enough fate.
The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense
establishment that was promised in the spring.
They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly.
In the morning Henry went to the business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some
prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand.
He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case
he grew hungry at eleven.
When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanize,
and several kettles of Helen's to keep on the boil.
Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost
sight of them.
No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry's wife, she preferred to help
someone else. As for theatres and discussion societies,
they attracted her less and less.
She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or
thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends.
They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her
not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable.
Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing
from words to things.
It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the
gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power.
>
Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 32
She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided
to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced.
"Have you heard the news?"
Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room.
"Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or rather, that you don't
know."
"Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her.
"Here's a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?"
Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been
at Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news.
The wrong people had tried to get in.
The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--
the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the
description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst."
"It will be very jolly," replied Margaret. "Are those the plans?
Does it matter me seeing them?"
"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans."
"They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that's rather
difficult.
Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a
picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly,
after a moment's inspection.
She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.
"I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?"
"Just the ordinary way up.
That's the sky-line, and the part that smells strongest is the sky."
"Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say?
How's Helen?"
"Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England?
Every one thinks it's awfully odd she doesn't."
"So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation.
She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully.
She has now been away eight months.
"But hasn't she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is
her address. Do write her a line.
I will look it up for you."
"No, don't bother. That's eight months she has been away,
surely?" "Exactly.
She left just after Evie's wedding.
It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?"
"Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round
the drawing-room.
She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks.
The Charles' were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with
expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves.
After all, he had not treated them generously.
Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up
the motor.
Margaret sympathized, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the
step-mother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance.
She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered.
"Oh yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-
cases."
"Why has she done that? How unnecessary!"
"Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to."
"I gave no such orders.
Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional
fire." "It was far more than an air," said Dolly
solemnly.
"The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done,
for he feels certain you don't know." "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy
word.
"Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our books?"
"Hasn't she, though! What used to be the hall's full of them.
Charles thought for certain you knew of it."
"I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery?
I must go down about it at once.
Some of the books are my brother's, and are quite valuable.
She had no right to open any of the cases." "I say she's dotty.
She was the one that never got married, you know.
Oh, I say, perhaps she thinks your books are wedding-presents to herself.
Old maids are taken that way sometimes.
Miss Avery hates us all like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie."
"I hadn't heard of that," said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its compensations.
"Didn't you know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned it, and
then--oh, goloshes! You never read such a letter as Miss Avery
wrote."
"But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn't like her to do such a heartless
thing." "But the present was so expensive."
"Why does that make any difference, Dolly?"
"Still, when it costs over five pounds--I didn't see it, but it was a lovely enamel
pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can't very well accept that kind of
thing from a farm woman.
Now, can you?" "You accepted a present from Miss Avery
when you were married. "Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff--not
worth a halfpenny.
Evie's was quite different. You'd have to ask anyone to the wedding who
gave you a pendant like that.
Uncle Percy and Albert and father and Charles all said it was quite impossible,
and when four men agree, what is a girl to do?
Evie didn't want to upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter best, and
returned the pendant straight to the shop to save Miss Avery trouble."
"But Miss Avery said--"
Dolly's eyes grew round. "It was a perfectly awful letter.
Charles said it was the letter of a madman.
In the end she had the pendant back again from the shop and threw it into the
duckpond. "Did she give any reasons?"
"We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so climb into society."
"She's rather old for that," said Margaret pensively.
"May not she have given the present to Evie in remembrance of her mother?"
"That's a notion. Give every one their due, eh?
Well, I suppose I ought to be toddling.
Come along, Mr. ***--you want a new coat, but I don't know who'll give it you, I'm
sure;" and addressing her apparel with mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room.
Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew about Miss Avery's rudeness.
"Oh yes." "I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to
look after the house."
"But she's only a farm woman," said Dolly, and her explanation proved correct.
Henry only censured the lower classes when it suited him.
He bore with Miss Avery as with Crane-- because he could get good value out of
them.
"I have patience with a man who knows his job," he would say, really having patience
with the job, and not the man.
Paradoxical as it may sound, he had something of the artist about him; he would
pass over an insult to his daughter sooner than lose a good charwoman for his wife.
Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble herself.
Parties were evidently ruffled.
With Henry's permission, she wrote a pleasant note to Miss Avery, asking her to
leave the cases untouched.
Then, at the first convenient opportunity, she went down herself, intending to repack
her belongings and store them properly in the local warehouse: the plan had been
amateurish and a failure.
Tibby promised to accompany her, but at the last moment begged to be excused.
So, for the second time in her life, she entered the house alone.
>
Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 33
The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of unclouded happiness that she was to
have for many months.
Her anxiety about Helen's extraordinary absence was still dormant, and as for a
possible brush with Miss Avery--that only gave zest to the expedition.
She had also eluded Dolly's invitation to luncheon.
Walking straight up from the station, she crossed the village green and entered the
long chestnut avenue that connects it with the church.
The church itself stood in the village once.
But it there attracted so many worshippers that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from
its foundations, and poised it on an inconvenient knoll, three-quarters of a
mile away.
If this story is true, the chestnut avenue must have been planted by the angels.
No more tempting approach could be imagined for the luke-warm Christian, and if he
still finds the walk too long, the devil is defeated all the same, Science having built
Holy Trinity, a Chapel of Ease, near the Charles', and roofed it with tin.
Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to watch the sky that gleamed
through the upper branches of the chestnuts, or to finger the little
horseshoes on the lower branches.
Why has not England a great mythology? Our folklore has never advanced beyond
daintiness, and the greater melodies about our country-side have all issued through
the pipes of Greece.
Deep and true as the native imagination can be, it seems to have failed here.
It has stopped with the witches and the fairies.
It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer field, or give names to half a dozen stars.
England still waits for the supreme moment of her literature--for the great poet who
shall voice her, or, better still, for the thousand little poets whose voices shall
pass into our common talk.
At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut avenue opened into a road,
smooth but narrow, which led into the untouched country.
She followed it for over a mile.
Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent destiny, it strolled
downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, nor about the
view, which nevertheless expanded.
The great estates that throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive here,
and the appearance of the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban.
To define it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not: it was not snobbish.
Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom in their sweep to which
Surrey will never attain, and the distant brow of the Chilterns towered like a
mountain.
"Left to itself," was Margaret's opinion, "this county would vote Liberal."
The comradeship, not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised
by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for the key.
But the inside of the farm was disappointing.
A most finished young person received her.
"Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter
quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at
the present moment.
Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by: "Of course, auntie does not
generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something
exceptional.
It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there.
My husband says to me sometimes, 'Where's auntie?'
I say, 'Need you ask?
She's at Howards End.' Yes, Mrs. Wilcox.
Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake?
Not if I cut it for you?"
Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this acquired her gentility
in the eyes of Miss Avery's niece. "I cannot let you go on alone.
Now don't.
You really mustn't. I will direct you myself if it comes to
that. I must get my hat.
Now"--roguishly--"Mrs. Wilcox, don't you move while I'm gone."
Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of art
nouveau had fallen.
But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar sadness
of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we
look back with disquietude.
The country which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides
of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest
expression in the heart of the fields.
All was not sadness. The sun was shining without.
The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose.
Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw.
It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her
a feeling of completeness.
In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole,
group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect--connect without
bitterness until all men are brothers.
But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery's niece, and were so
tranquillizing that she suffered the interruption gladly.
It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, they went out
by it.
The niece was now mortified by unnumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feet for
food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did not know what animals were coming
to.
But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air.
The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they
floated in families over Evie's pendant.
One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves stiff in bud seem to rustle,
swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgia," sang the thrush.
"Cuckoo," came furtively from the cliff of pine-trees.
"Georgia, pretty Georgia," and the other birds joined in with nonsense.
The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days.
Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended
hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also
the promise of blossom.
Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even
than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the
zephyr behind.
The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility.
But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a
day, and the niece was thinking about hats.
Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the
air. There was no reply, and the front door was
locked.
"Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret.
"Oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily."
Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside
was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall.
The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember them
being there on her other visit: her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken
everything away.
They tried the back.
Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was
fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up
against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases.
Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also.
At the first cry she succeeded.
"Well, well!" replied someone inside the house.
"If it isn't Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?"
"Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.
"Auntie, it's Mrs. Wilcox--" Margaret supported her.
"Your niece and I have come together--"
"Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat."
The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she
said nervously.
"Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture.
Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of
course."
But after that came silence. They called again without response.
They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded
Margaret.
"Well, if you'll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now.
The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times."
Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had
loosed a spring, the front door opened at once.
Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!" quite pleasantly and calmly.
"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-
stand.
It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss
Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered
a cry of despair.
For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of
the library from Wickham Place.
The carpet had been laid, the big work- table drawn up near the window; the
bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father's sword--this is
what bewildered her particularly--had been
drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes.
Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I'm afraid this isn't what we meant," she
began.
"Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched.
For instance, these books are my brother's. We are storing them for him and for my
sister, who is abroad.
When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so
much." "The house has been empty long enough,"
said the old woman.
Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn't explain," she said
civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our
mistake."
"Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years.
The house is Mrs. Wilcox's, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer."
To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said:
"Yes, Mrs. Wilcox's house, the mother of Mr. Charles."
"Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery.
"Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don't know," said Margaret,
sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don't know what's to be done."
She could not help laughing.
The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough."
"I don't know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery.
Yes, that's all right.
Delightful." "There is still the parlour."
She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain.
Light flooded the drawing-room and the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place.
"And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were
flung open to the spring.
"Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and repassing through the hall.
Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind.
"I've not finished here yet," she announced, returning.
"There's still a deal to do.
The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to
go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake," repeated Margaret,
feeling that she must put her foot down.
"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at
Howards End." "Oh, indeed.
On account of his hay fever?"
"We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this
furniture--my part--will go down there presently."
She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain.
Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous.
She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility.
"You think that you won't come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will."
"That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling.
"We have no intention of doing so for the present.
We happen to need a much larger house.
Circumstances oblige us to give big parties.
Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?"
Miss Avery retorted: "Some day!
Tcha! tcha! Don't talk about some day.
You are living here now." "Am I?"
"You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me."
It was a senseless remark, but with a *** feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose from
her chair.
She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured.
They went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother's
chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche.
The furniture fitted extraordinarily well.
In the central room--over the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years
ago--Miss Avery had placed Tibby's old bassinette.
"The nursery," she said.
Margaret turned away without speaking. At last everything was seen.
The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far as
she could make out, nothing had been broken or scratched.
A pathetic display of ingenuity!
Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden.
It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had
sprung up at the very jaws of the garage.
And Evie's rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss
Avery's oddness.
But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl's silly letter
had but loosed the irritation of years. "It's a beautiful meadow," she remarked.
It was one of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundreds of years
ago, out of the smaller fields.
So the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles, and at the bottom
there was a little green annex--a sort of powder-closet for the cows.
"Yes, the maidy's well enough," said Miss Avery, "for those that is, who don't suffer
from sneezing." And she cackled maliciously.
"I've seen Charlie Wilcox go out to my lads in hay time--oh, they ought to do this--
they mustn't do that--he'd learn them to be lads.
And just then the tickling took him.
He has it from his father, with other things.
There's not one Wilcox that can stand up against a field in June--I laughed fit to
burst while he was courting Ruth."
"My brother gets hay fever too," said Margaret.
"This house lies too much on the land for them.
Naturally, they were glad enough to slip in at first.
But Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see you've found."
Margaret laughed.
"They keep a place going, don't they? Yes, it is just that."
"They keep England going, it is my opinion."
But Miss Avery upset her by replying: "Ay, they breed like rabbits.
Well, well, it's a funny world. But He who made it knows what He wants in
it, I suppose.
If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn't for us to repine."
"They breed and they also work," said Margaret, conscious of some invitation to
disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds.
"It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like my husband and his sons govern
it, I think it'll never be a bad one--never really bad."
"No, better'n nothing," said Miss Avery, and turned to the wych-elm.
On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old friend much more clearly than
before.
In the house Margaret had wondered whether she quite distinguished the first wife from
the second.
Now she said: "I never saw much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we stayed
civil. It was a very civil family.
Old Mrs. Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let anyone be turned away
without food.
Then it was never 'Trespassers will be prosecuted' in their land, but would people
please not come in. Mrs. Howard was never created to run a
farm."
"Had they no men to help them?" Margaret asked.
Miss Avery replied: "Things went on until there were no men."
"Until Mr. Wilcox came along," corrected Margaret, anxious that her husband should
receive his dues.
"I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a--no disrespect to you to say this, for I
take it you were intended to get Wilcox any way, whether she got him first or no."
"Whom should she have married?"
"A soldier!" exclaimed the old woman. "Some real soldier."
Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry's character far
more trenchant than any of her own.
She felt dissatisfied. "But that's all over," she went on.
"A better time is coming now, though you've kept me long enough waiting.
In a couple of weeks I'll see your lights shining through the hedge of an evening.
Have you ordered in coals?" "We are not coming," said Margaret firmly.
She respected Miss Avery too much to humour her.
"No. Not coming. Never coming.
It has all been a mistake.
The furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry but I am making other
arrangements, and must ask you to give me the keys."
"Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties with a smile.
Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her compliments to Madge, Margaret
walked back to the station.
She had intended to go to the furniture warehouse and give directions for removal,
but the muddle had turned out more extensive than she expected, so she decided
to consult Henry.
It was as well that she did this. He was strongly against employing the local
man whom he had previously recommended, and advised her to store in London after all.
But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her.
>
Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 34
It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley's health had been bad all the
winter.
She had had a long series of colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid of
them.
She had scarcely promised her niece "to really take my tiresome chest in hand,"
when she caught a chill and developed acute pneumonia.
Margaret and Tibby went down to Swanage.
Helen was telegraphed for, and that spring party that after all gathered in that
hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories.
On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain, and the waves of the discreet
little bay beat gentlest of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through the
rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness of Death.
One death may explain itself, but it throws no light upon another: the groping inquiry
must begin anew.
Preachers or scientists may generalize, but we know that no generality is possible
about those whom we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion.
Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out of life with odd little laughs and
apologies for having stopped in it so long.
She was very weak; she could not rise to the occasion, or realize the great mystery
which all agree must await her; it only seemed to her that she was quite done up--
more done up than ever before; that she saw
and heard and felt less every moment; and that, unless something changed, she would
soon feel nothing.
Her spare strength she devoted to plans: could not Margaret take some steamer
expeditions? were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them?
She worried herself about Helen's absence, and also that she could be the cause of
Helen's return.
The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an
average approach to the Great Gate.
But Margaret saw Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death
may contain, the process can be trivial and hideous.
"Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes."
"Helen won't be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only get
away just to see you.
She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well."
"How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"
"Yes, dear?"
"Can he spare you?" Henry wished her to come, and had been very
kind. Yet again Margaret said so.
Mrs. Munt did not die.
Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold of her and checked her on
the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as fidgety
as ever.
On the fourth day she was out of danger. "Margaret--important," it went on: "I
should like you to have some companion to take walks with.
Do try Miss Conder."
"I have been a little walk with Miss Conder."
"But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen."
"I have Tibby, Aunt Juley."
"No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need.
Really, Helen is odd." "Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret.
"Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at once?"
"No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us.
She has not the least balance."
That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret's voice trembled as she made
it. By now she was deeply pained at her
sister's behaviour.
It may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stop away eight months argues that
the heart is awry as well as the head.
A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a glimpse
at her aunt, she would retire into her nebulous life behind some poste restante.
She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and infrequent; she had no
wants and no curiosity. And it was all put down to poor Henry's
account!
Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too infamous to be greeted by his sister-
in-law.
It was morbid, and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth of
morbidity back in Helen's life for nearly four years.
The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage of the Basts; the explosion of
grief up on the Downs--all connected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips had
kissed hers for a fraction of time.
Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again.
Foolishly: the real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wilcoxes had eaten
into her life until she was scarcely sane.
At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was there for her as an old
woman? The more Margaret thought about it the more
alarmed she became.
For many months she had put the subject away, but it was too big to be slighted
now. There was almost a taint of madness.
Were all Helen's actions to be governed by a tiny mishap, such as may happen to any
young man or woman? Can human nature be constructed on lines so
insignificant?
The blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital.
It propagated itself where graver intercourse lay barren; it was stronger
than sisterly intimacy, stronger than reason or books.
In one of her moods Helen had confessed that she still "enjoyed" it in a certain
sense. Paul had faded, but the magic of his caress
endured.
And where there is enjoyment of the past there may also be reaction--propagation at
both ends.
Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such seed-beds, and we without
power to choose the seed.
But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on pilfering the earth, and heedless
of the growths within himself. He cannot be bored about psychology.
He leaves it to the specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner to be eaten
by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to digest his own
soul.
Margaret and Helen have been more patient, and it is suggested that Margaret has
succeeded--so far as success is yet possible.
She does understand herself, she has some rudimentary control over her own growth.
Whether Helen has succeeded one cannot say. The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen's
letter arrived.
She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London herself on the morrow.
It was a disquieting letter, though the opening was affectionate and sane.
Dearest Meg,
Give Helen's love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that I love, and have loved, her
ever since I can remember. I shall be in London Thursday.
My address will be care of the bankers.
I have not yet settled on a hotel, so write or wire to me there and give me detailed
news.
If Aunt Juley is much better, or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my
coming down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not come.
I have all sorts of plans in my head.
I am living abroad at present, and want to get back as quickly as possible.
Will you please tell me where our furniture is.
I should like to take out one or two books; the rest are for you.
Forgive me, dearest Meg.
This must read like rather a tiresome letter, but all letters are from your
loving Helen
It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to tell a lie.
If she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in danger her sister would come.
Unhealthiness is contagious.
We cannot be in contact with those who are in a morbid state without ourselves
deteriorating.
To "act for the best" might do Helen good, but would do herself harm, and, at the risk
of disaster, she kept her colours flying a little longer.
She replied that their aunt was much better, and awaited developments.
Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he was a pleasanter
companion than before.
Oxford had done much for him. He had lost his peevishness, and could hide
his indifference to people and his interest in food.
But he had not grown more human.
The years between eighteen and twenty-two, so magical for most, were leading him
gently from boyhood to middle age.
He had never known young-manliness, that quality which warms the heart till death,
and gives Mr. Wilcox an imperishable charm. He was frigid, through no fault of his own,
and without cruelty.
He thought Helen wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was for him what a
scene behind footlights is for most people. He had only one suggestion to make, and
that was characteristic.
"Why don't you tell Mr. Wilcox?" "About Helen?"
"Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing."
"He would do all he could, but--"
"Oh, you know best. But he is practical."
It was the student's belief in experts. Margaret demurred for one or two reasons.
Presently Helen's answer came.
She sent a telegram requesting the address of the furniture, as she would now return
at once. Margaret replied, "Certainly not; meet me
at the bankers at four."
She and Tibby went up to London. Helen was not at the bankers, and they were
refused her address. Helen had passed into chaos.
Margaret put her arm round her brother.
He was all that she had left, and never had he seemed more unsubstantial.
"Tibby love, what next?" He replied: "It is extraordinary."
"Dear, your judgment's often clearer than mine.
Have you any notion what's at the back?" "None, unless it's something mental."
"Oh--that!" said Margaret.
"Quite impossible." But the suggestion had been uttered, and in
a few minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else explained.
And London agreed with Tibby.
The mask fell off the city, and she saw it for what it really is--a caricature of
infinity.
The familiar barriers, the streets along which she moved, the houses between which
she had made her little journeys for so many years, became negligible suddenly.
Helen seemed one with grimy trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs of
mud. She had accomplished a hideous act of
renunciation and returned to the One.
Margaret's own faith held firm. She knew the human soul will be merged, if
it be merged at all, with the stars and the sea.
Yet she felt that her sister had been going amiss for many years.
It was symbolic the catastrophe should come now, on a London afternoon, while rain fell
slowly.
Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite.
He might know of some paths in the chaos that were hidden from them, and she
determined to take Tibby's advice and lay the whole matter in his hands.
They must call at his office.
He could not well make it worse. She went for a few moments into St. Paul's,
whose dome stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the gospel of
form.
But within, St. Paul's is as its surroundings--echoes and whispers,
inaudible songs, invisible mosaics, wet footmarks crossing and recrossing the
floor.
Si monumentum requiris, circumspice: it points us back to London.
There was no hope of Helen here. Henry was unsatisfactory at first.
That she had expected.
He was overjoyed to see her back from Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a
new trouble.
When they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the Schlegels generally,
and declared that it was "just like Helen" to lead her relatives a dance.
"That is what we all say," replied Margaret.
"But why should it be just like Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so ***,
and to grow queerer?"
"Don't ask me. I'm a plain man of business.
I live and let live. My advice to you both is, don't worry.
Margaret, you've got black marks again under your eyes.
You know that's strictly forbidden. First your aunt--then your sister.
No, we aren't going to have it.
Are we, Theobald?" He rang the bell.
"I'll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie Street.
I can't have my girl looking as old as her husband."
"All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby.
Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don't suppose I ever shall."
He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered
over the map of Africa.
Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her.
"Margaret's point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad."
Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round.
"Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all?
We are again in trouble."
"I'm afraid I cannot. What are the facts?
We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days."
"The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic lucidity.
"The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us.
She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address.
She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless.
There are other facts, but these are the most striking."
"She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry.
"Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown.
"Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over
her.
"You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said.
"You must have noticed that much in her, surely."
"Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together."
"No, Henry--can't you see? --I don't mean that."
She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her.
Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene.
"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the
heart in the long run. She behaved oddly because she cared for
someone, or wanted to help them.
There's no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why
I am sure that she is not well. 'Mad' is too terrible a word, but she is
not well.
I shall never believe it. I shouldn't discuss my sister with you if I
thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."
Henry began to grow serious.
Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite.
Generally well himself, he could not realize that we sink to it by slow
gradations.
The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them
remorselessly.
When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into
Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead.
Helen, too, was ill.
And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was,
drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. "You want to get hold of her?" he said.
"That's the problem, isn't it?
She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already."
"Yes, yes; don't interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently.
The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved
money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles
of gin.
"I've got it," he said at last. "It's perfectly easy.
Leave it to me. We'll send her down to Howards End."
"How will you do that?"
"After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself.
Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that's just what she won't let
me do.
It's part of her--whatever it is--never to see me."
"Of course you won't tell her you're going. When she is there, looking at the cases,
you'll just stroll in.
If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better.
But there'll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her up to a specialist in no
time."
Margaret shook her head. "It's quite impossible."
"Why?" "It doesn't seem impossible to me," said
Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan."
"It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly.
"It's not the particular language that Helen and I talk if you see my meaning.
It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don't blame."
"But Helen doesn't talk," said Tibby. "That's our whole difficulty.
She won't talk your particular language, and on that account you think she's ill."
"No, Henry; it's sweet of you, but I couldn't."
"I see," he said; "you have scruples."
"I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would
have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a
word, but you had scruples.
And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I
hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--"
"I deny it's madness."
"You said just now--" "It's madness when I say it, but not when
you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders.
"Margaret!
Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic.
Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?"
"Not in that way."
"Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer.
Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting.
"Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said.
"Why, Charles?"
Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a
salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens,"
he said crossly.
"We don't want any more mess." "Who's 'we'?" asked his father.
"My boy, pray, who's 'we'?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said
Charles.
"I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never
mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible.
He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as
he talked.
Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill,
without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her.
Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase.
She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband's dictation; she said the furniture
was all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 p.m., when a charwoman
would be in attendance.
It was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that.
Helen would think she was offended.
And on Monday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then ambush
themselves in the garden.
After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can't have this sort of behaviour,
my boy. Margaret's too sweet-natured to mind, but I
mind for her."
Charles made no answer. "Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this
afternoon?" "No, pater; but you may be taking on a
bigger business than you reckon."
"How?" "Don't ask me."
>
Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 35
One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children have only
one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling of
birds.
New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the
same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures, seen and
unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow.
The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set out
to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance.
Time might never have moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his
schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he saw her through a veil of tears.
She protested no more.
Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other
standard by which to judge him. She must trust him absolutely.
As soon as he had taken up a business, his obtuseness vanished.
He profited by the slightest indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be
staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie.
They went down in the morning as arranged, and he discovered that their victim was
actually in Hilton.
On his arrival he called at all the livery- stables in the village, and had a few
minutes' serious conversation with the proprietors.
What he said, Margaret did not know-- perhaps not the truth; but news arrived
after lunch that a lady had come by the London train, and had taken a fly to
Howards End.
"She was bound to drive," said Henry. "There will be her books.
"I cannot make it out," said Margaret for the hundredth time.
"Finish your coffee, dear.
We must be off." "Yes, Margaret, you know you must take
plenty," said Dolly. Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her
hand to her eyes.
Dolly stole glances at her father-in-law which he did not answer.
In the silence the motor came round to the door.
"You're not fit for it," he said anxiously.
"Let me go alone. I know exactly what to do."
"Oh yes, I am fit," said Margaret, uncovering her face.
"Only most frightfully worried.
I cannot feel that Helen is really alive. Her letters and telegrams seem to have come
from someone else. Her voice isn't in them.
I don't believe your driver really saw her at the station.
I wish I'd never mentioned it. I know that Charles is vexed.
Yes, he is--" She seized Dolly's hand and kissed it.
"There, Dolly will forgive me. There.
Now we'll be off."
Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not like this breakdown.
"Don't you want to tidy yourself?" he asked.
"Have I time?"
"Yes, plenty." She went to the lavatory by the front door,
and as soon as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly:
"Dolly, I'm going without her."
Dolly's eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tip-toe out to the car.
"Tell her I thought it best." "Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see."
"Say anything you like.
All right." The car started well, and with ordinary
luck would have got away.
But Porgly-woggles, who was playing in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in
the middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one wheel
over a bed of wallflowers.
Dolly screamed. Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out
hatless, and was in time to jump on the footboard.
She said not a single word: he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, and
her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate what Helen would feel against
them.
She thought, "I deserve it: I am punished for lowering my colours."
And she accepted his apologies with a calmness that astonished him.
"I still consider you are not fit for it," he kept saying.
"Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly
before me now."
"I was meaning to act for the best." "Just lend me your scarf, will you?
This wind takes one's hair so." "Certainly, dear girl.
Are you all right now?"
"Look! My hands have stopped trembling."
"And have quite forgiven me? Then listen.
Her cab should already have arrived at Howards End.
(We're a little late, but no matter.)
Our first move will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one
doesn't want a scene before servants.
A certain gentleman"--he pointed at Crane's back--"won't drive in, but will wait a
little short of the front gate, behind the laurels.
Have you still the keys of the house?"
"Yes." "Well, they aren't wanted.
Do you remember how the house stands?" "Yes."
"If we don't find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden.
Our object--" Here they stopped to pick up the doctor.
"I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to frighten
Miss Schlegel.
The house, as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite natural for us to be
there. The trouble is evidently nervous--wouldn't
you say so, Margaret?"
The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen.
Was she normal? Was there anything congenital or
hereditary?
Had anything occurred that was likely to alienate her from her family?
"Nothing," answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she had added:
"Though she did resent my husband's immorality."
"She always was highly strung," pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as it shot
past the church. "A tendency to spiritualism and those
things, though nothing serious.
Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say normal--a very charming girl."
Margaret's anger and terror increased every moment.
How dare these men label her sister!
What horrors lay ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the
name of science!
The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her human rights, and it seemed to Margaret
that all Schlegels were threatened with her.
"Were they normal?"
What a question to ask! And it is always those who know nothing
about human nature, who are bored by psychology and shocked by physiology, who
ask it.
However piteous her sister's state, she knew that she must be on her side.
They would be mad together if the world chose to consider them so.
It was now five minutes past three.
The car slowed down by the farm, in the yard of which Miss Avery was standing.
Henry asked her whether a cab had gone past.
She nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of it, at the end of the lane.
The car ran silently like a beast of prey.
So unsuspicious was Helen that she was sitting on the porch, with her back to the
road. She had come.
Only her head and shoulders were visible.
She sat framed in the vine, and one of her hands played with the buds.
The wind ruffled her hair, the sun glorified it; she was as she had always
been.
Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her husband could prevent her, she
slipped out.
She ran to the garden gate, which was shut, passed through it, and deliberately pushed
it in his face. The noise alarmed Helen.
Margaret saw her rise with an unfamiliar movement, and, rushing into the porch,
learnt the simple explanation of all their fears--her sister was with child.
"Is the truant all right?" called Henry.
She had time to whisper: "Oh, my darling--" The keys of the house were in her hand.
She unlocked Howards End and thrust Helen into it.
"Yes, all right," she said, and stood with her back to the door.
>
Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 36
"Margaret, you look upset!" said Henry. Mansbridge had followed.
Crane was at the gate, and the flyman had stood up on the box.
Margaret shook her head at them; she could not speak any more.
She remained clutching the keys, as if all their future depended on them.
Henry was asking more questions.
She shook her head again. His words had no sense.
She heard him wonder why she had let Helen in.
"You might have given me a knock with the gate," was another of his remarks.
Presently she heard herself speaking. She, or someone for her, said "Go away."
Henry came nearer.
He repeated, "Margaret, you look upset again.
My dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with Helen?"
"Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all."
"Manage what?" He stretched out his hand for the keys.
She might have obeyed if it had not been for the doctor.
"Stop that at least," she said piteously; the doctor had turned back, and was
questioning the driver of Helen's cab.
A new feeling came over her; she was fighting for women against men.
She did not care about rights, but if men came into Howards End, it should be over
her body.
"Come, this is an odd beginning," said her husband.
The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox--the scandal was
out.
Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth.
"I cannot help it," said Margaret. "Do wait.
It's not my fault.
Please all four of you to go away now." Now the flyman was whispering to Crane.
"We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox," said the young doctor.
"Could you go in and persuade your sister to come out?"
"On what grounds?" said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the eyes.
Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured something about a nervous
breakdown. "I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of
the sort.
You are not qualified to attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge.
If we require your services, we will let you know."
"I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish," he retorted.
"You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not qualified to attend
my sister."
"Come, come, Margaret!" said Henry, never raising his eyes.
"This is a terrible business, an appalling business.
It's doctor's orders.
Open the door." "Forgive me, but I will not."
"I don't agree." Margaret was silent.
"This business is as broad as it's long," contributed the doctor.
"We had better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you."
"Quite so," said Henry.
"I do not need you in the least," said Margaret.
The two men looked at each other anxiously. "No more does my sister, who is still many
weeks from her confinement."
"Margaret, Margaret!" "Well, Henry, send your doctor away.
What possible use is he now?" Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house.
He had a vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the doctor.
He himself might need support, for there was trouble ahead.
"It all turns on affection now," said Margaret.
"Affection. Don't you see?"
Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with her finger.
"Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much.
Mr. Mansbridge doesn't know her.
That's all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives
rights. Put that down in your notebook, Mr.
Mansbridge.
It's a useful formula." Henry told her to be calm.
"You don't know what you want yourselves," said Margaret, folding her arms.
"For one sensible remark I will let you in.
But you cannot make it. You would trouble my sister for no reason.
I will not permit it. I'll stand here all the day sooner."
"Mansbridge," said Henry in a low voice, "perhaps not now."
The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went
back into the car.
"Now, Henry, you," she said gently. None of her bitterness had been directed at
him. "Go away now, dear.
I shall want your advice later, no doubt.
Forgive me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go."
He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a
low voice to him.
"I shall soon find you down at Dolly's," she called, as the gate at last clanged
between them.
The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed again, and
turned in the narrow road.
A string of farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for
there was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started,
she opened the door.
"Oh, my darling!" she said. "My darling, forgive me."
Helen was standing in the hall.
>
Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 37
Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but
Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said:
"Convenient!
You did not tell me that the books were unpacked.
I have found nearly everything that I want. "I told you nothing that was true."
"It has been a great surprise, certainly.
Has Aunt Juley been ill?" "Helen, you wouldn't think I'd invent
that?" "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away,
and crying a very little.
"But one loses faith in everything after this."
"We thought it was illness, but even then-- I haven't behaved worthily."
Helen selected another book.
"I ought not to have consulted anyone. What would our father have thought of me?"
She did not think of questioning her sister, nor of rebuking her.
Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than
any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence that is the work of the
devil.
"Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected.
I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley
recovered, it was not necessary.
Planning my life, as I now have to do--" "Come away from those books," called
Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me."
"I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard.
One can't go through a great deal of"--she missed out the noun--"without planning
one's actions in advance.
I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions,
excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but
only then.
In the second place I have no right to trouble people.
I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English
never pardon.
It would not be right for them to pardon it.
So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn't you tell me, dearest?"
"Yes," replied Helen judicially.
"I might have, but decided to wait." " I believe you would never have told me."
"Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."
Margaret glanced out of window.
"By 'we' I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always
wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica."
"You wouldn't have.
She's an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism.
I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me
through."
"You are very fond of her, then." "She has been extraordinarily sensible with
me."
Margaret guessed at Monica's type-- "Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it:
the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids.
And Helen had turned to it in her need!
"You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured
kindness.
"I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can
be with me the better. But you haven't understood yet, Meg, and of
course it is very difficult for you.
This is a shock to you. It isn't to me, who have been thinking over
our futures for many months, and they won't be changed by a slight contretemps, such as
this.
I cannot live in England." "Helen, you've not forgiven me for my
treachery. You COULDN'T talk like this to me if you
had."
"Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily.
Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down
here?"
"Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of the furniture has been
unpacked." "All."
"Who lives here, then?"
"No one." "I suppose you are letting it though--"
"The house is dead," said Margaret with a frown.
"Why worry on about it?"
"But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest
in life. I am still Helen, I hope.
Now this hasn't the feel of a dead house.
The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes' own
things." "Interested, are you?
Very well, I must tell you, I suppose.
My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and
Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can't go on like this.
I warn you I won't.
Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate
Henry?" "I don't hate him now," said Helen.
"I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I'm not being unkind.
But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once.
Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street!
It's unthinkable." Margaret could not contradict her.
It was appalling to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bitter or
excitable, neither asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom
and the company of those who would not blame her.
She had been through--how much? Margaret did not know.
But it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends.
"Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was lingering
over the furniture.
"There's nothing to tell." "But your marriage has been happy, Meg?"
"Yes, but I don't feel inclined to talk." "You feel as I do."
"Not that, but I can't."
"No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying."
Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward
would exclude Helen.
Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit.
They could find no meeting-place.
Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection
survived. "Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?"
"You mean that you want to go away from me?"
"I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn't any use.
I knew we should have nothing to say.
Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can say.
Promise to come and see me in Munich later."
"Certainly, dearest."
"For that is all we can do." It seemed so.
Most ghastly of all was Helen's common sense: Monica had been extraordinarily good
for her.
"I am glad to have seen you and the things."
She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past.
Margaret unbolted the door.
She remarked: "The car has gone, and here's your cab."
She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky.
The spring had never seemed more beautiful.
The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, "Please, lady, a message," and
handed her Henry's visiting-card through the bars.
"How did this come?" she asked.
Crane had returned with it almost at once. She read the card with annoyance.
It was covered with instructions in domestic French.
When she and her sister had talked she was to come back for the night to Dolly's.
"Il faut dormir sur ce sujet." While Helen was to be found "une
comfortable chambre a l'hotel."
The final sentence displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles' had
only one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest.
"Henry would have done what he could," she interpreted.
Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her
inclination to fly.
She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table.
She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming.
"This is Mr. Wilcox's house?" she inquired.
"Surely you remember Howards End?" "Remember?
I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now."
"Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her own spirits lightening a
little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling
of disloyalty.
But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it.
"She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her house with our things than
think of it empty.
In consequence here are all the library books."
"Not all the books. She hasn't unpacked the Art Books, in which
she may show her sense.
And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though."
"Magnificent." "Yes, doesn't it?"
"Where's the piano, Meg?"
"I warehoused that in London. Why?"
"Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits."
"The carpet's a mistake," announced Helen.
"I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare.
It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-
furnishing.
Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start?
There's no carpet there. They went in, and each minute their talk
became more natural.
"Oh, WHAT a place for mother's chiffonier!" cried Helen.
"Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them!
Wickham Place faced north, didn't it?"
"North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of
those chairs have felt the sun. Feel.
Their little backs are quite warm."
"But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners?
I shall just--" "Over here, Meg.
Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn."
Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it.
"Ye-es.
The window's too high." "Try a drawing-room chair."
"No, I don't like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded.
It would have been so beautiful otherwise."
"Helen, what a memory you have for some things!
You're perfectly right. It's a room that men have spoilt through
trying to make it nice for women.
Men don't know what we want--" "And never will."
"I don't agree. In two thousand years they'll know."
"But the chairs show up wonderfully.
Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee.
It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head.
"Impossible.
Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time."
"Was Father alive?" "Yes."
"Then you're right and it must have been soup.
I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley's, when
she didn't realize that Tibby had grown up.
It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose.
There was some rhyme, 'Tea, coffee--coffee, tea,' that she said to him every morning at
breakfast.
Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don't.
What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful.
No decent person could have put up with it."
"Ah, that greengage tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their
childhood.
"Why do I connect it with dumbbells? And there come the chickens.
The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers--"
Margaret interrupted her.
"I have got it," she announced. 'Tea, tea, coffee, tea,BR Or
chocolaritee.' "That every morning for three weeks.
No wonder Tibby was wild."
"Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen.
"There! I knew you'd say that in the end.
Of course he's a dear."
A bell rang. "Listen! what's that?"
Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."
"What nonsense--listen!"
And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the
knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common
things.
Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and
had only made each other unhappy.
And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the
present; the present, with wild heart- throb, declaring that there would after all
be a future, with laughter and the voices of children.
Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister.
She said, "It is always Meg."
They looked into each other's eyes. The inner life had paid.
Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front.
Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window.
Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can.
And triviality returned.
"Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk."
"Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply.
"Yes, please."
"Then take it back and say we require no milk."
While she called to Helen, "No, it's not the siege, but possibly an attempt to
provision us against one."
"But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?"
"Do you? Oh, very well.
But we've nothing to put it in, and he wants the can."
"Please, I'm to call in the morning for the can," said the boy.
"The house will be locked up then."
"In the morning would I bring eggs, too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the
stacks last week?" The child hung his head.
"Well, run away and do it again."
"Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what's your name?
Mine's Helen." "Tom."
That was Helen all over.
The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in
return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret.
And at home we've another called Tibby."
"Mine are lop-eared," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit.
"You're a very good and rather a clever little boy.
Mind you come again.--Isn't he charming?"
"Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge
is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know." "Because I probably agree with you."
"It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live."
"I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk.
"But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago."
"Meaning that I was dead.
I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we,
even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can't get over that for thirty years the
sun has never shone full on our furniture.
After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I've a startling idea."
"What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you."
Margaret obeyed.
"No, I won't tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry.
Let's go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing."
They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring.
Curtains blew, picture-frames tapped cheerfully.
Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right
place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not
having moved the wardrobes up.
"Then one would see really." She admired the view.
She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago.
As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea.
Couldn't you and I camp out in this house for the night?"
"I don't think we could well do that," said Margaret.
"Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn't supposed to be
slept in, and Henry's suggestion was--"
"I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans.
But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you.
It will be something to look back on.
Oh, Meg lovey, do let's!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we
can't without getting Henry's leave.
Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn't visit at Ducie
Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house.
This is ours.
Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door.
Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk.
Why not?
It's a moon." Margaret hesitated.
"I feel Charles wouldn't like it," she said at last.
"Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley's
illness prevented me. I sympathize with Charles.
He feels it's his mother's house.
He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles."
"I know he won't like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives.
What difference will it make in the long run if they say, 'And she even spent the
night at Howards End'?" "How do you know you'll pass out of their
lives?
We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--"
"--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs
are little," said Helen, taking fire.
"I know of things they can't know of, and so do you.
We know that there's poetry. We know that there's death.
They can only take them on hearsay.
We know this is our house, because it feels ours.
Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the doorkeys, but for this one night we are at
home."
"It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret.
"It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk."
She dropped her voice.
"It won't be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see
little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?"
"I needn't say how much it would mean to me."
"Then let us." "It is no good hesitating.
Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?"
"Oh, we don't want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife.
In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathize
with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt.
If possible, she would be technical, too.
A night's lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of
general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen.
"We shan't consult him."
"Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."
It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen's character, and
even added to its beauty.
She would have stopped without leave, and escaped to Germany the next morning.
Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark.
I am looking forward to it so much.
It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing."
"Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy
closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house.
She was afraid of Miss Avery.
It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially.
She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little
Tom, turning somersaults in the straw.
>
Howards End by E. M. Forster CHAPTER 38
The tragedy began quietly enough, and like many another talk, by the man's deft
assertion of his superiority.
Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was
inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn.
Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea.
He refused them, and ordered her to wheel baby's perambulator away, as they desired
to be alone.
"But the diddums can't listen; he isn't nine months old," she pleaded.
"That's not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law.
Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years.
It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked.
"It is."
"Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and
nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through."
Margaret bent her head.
"I am obliged to question you on subjects we'd both prefer to leave untouched.
As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred.
To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not
children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most
exceptional woman."
All Margaret's senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six
Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind.
"I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife!
Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done
with you.
Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No."
There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about
Howards End."
"One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her
seducer." She rose to her feet and held the chair
between them.
Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should
receive his question thus. "Take your time," he counselled her.
"Remember that this is far worse for me than for you."
She swayed; he feared she was going to faint.
Then speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer?
No; I do not know her seducer's name." "Would she not tell you?"
"I never even asked her who seduced her," said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word
thoughtfully. "That is singular."
Then he changed his mind.
"Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn't ask.
But until his name is known, nothing can be done.
Sit down.
How terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren't fit for it.
I wish I hadn't taken you."
Margaret answered, "I like to stand, if you don't mind, for it gives me a pleasant view
of the Six Hills." "As you like."
"Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?"
"Next you must tell me whether you have gathered anything.
I have often noticed your insight, dear. I only wish my own was as good.
You may have guessed something, even though your sister said nothing.
The slightest hint would help us." "Who is 'we'?"
"I thought it best to ring up Charles."
"That was unnecessary," said Margaret, growing warmer.
"This news will give Charles disproportionate pain."
"He has at once gone to call on your brother."
"That too was unnecessary." "Let me explain, dear, how the matter
stands.
You don't think that I and my son are other than gentlemen?
It is in Helen's interests that we are acting.
It is still not too late to save her name."
Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to make her seducer marry her?" she
asked. "If possible. Yes."
"But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already?
One has heard of such cases."
"In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed within an inch
of his life." So her first blow missed.
She was thankful of it.
What had tempted her to imperil both of their lives?
Henry's obtuseness had saved her as well as himself.
Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he told her as much as
he thought fit. At last she said: "May I ask you my
question now?"
"Certainly, my dear." "Tomorrow Helen goes to Munich--"
"Well, possibly she is right." "Henry, let a lady finish.
Tomorrow she goes; tonight, with your permission, she would like to sleep at
Howards End." It was the crisis of his life.
Again she would have recalled the words as soon as they were uttered.
She had not led up to them with sufficient care.
She longed to warn him that they were far more important than he supposed.
She saw him weighing them, as if they were a business proposition.
"Why Howards End?" he said at last.
"Would she not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?"
Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd request, but you know what
Helen is and what women in her state are."
He frowned, and moved irritably. "She has the idea that one night in your
house would give her pleasure and do her good.
I think she's right.
Being one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our books and furniture
soothes her. This is a fact.
It is the end of her girlhood.
Her last words to me were, 'A beautiful ending.'"
"She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact."
"Exactly.
You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it."
"I don't agree there, my dear!
Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her
share, for you are so fond of her that you'd give her anything of yours that she
fancies, wouldn't you? and I'd raise no objection.
I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house"--he
changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--"because a
house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don't know why.
Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards
End, though I and Charles and Evie have.
I do not see why she wants to stay the night there.
She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don't see," cried
Margaret.
"Call it fancy. But realize that fancy is a scientific
fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to."
Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence.
He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night, she may
want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house,
perhaps."
"Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight.
"And suppose we don't get her out of the house?
Would it matter?
She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture.
"No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn't mean that.
We will only trouble Howards End for this one night.
I take her to London tomorrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house,
too?"
"She cannot be left alone." "That's quite impossible!
Madness. You must be here to meet Charles."
"I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no
desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret--"
"What has this business to do with Charles?
If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all."
"As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox, arching his fingers, "I should
say that it did concern Charles."
"In what way? Will Helen's condition depreciate the
property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."
"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."
They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now.
"Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry.
"As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she
will prove more sinned against than sinning.
But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened.
I should be false to my position in society if I did."
She controlled herself for the last time.
"No, let us go back to Helen's request," she said.
"It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl.
Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer.
Tonight she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about,
and which you have not occupied for over a year.
May she?
Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her--as you hope to be
forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven?
Forgive her for one night only.
That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?"
"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret.
"Answer my question."
Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him.
If so, he blotted it out.
Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have
some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another.
I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel.
I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider.
I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once."
"You mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?"
"A rare occurrence.
In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said
Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved.
Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands.
She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried.
"You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry!
You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from
the house.
Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh,
contemptible!
--a man who insults his wife when she's alive and cants with her memory when she's
dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure,
and casts her off to ruin other men.
And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible.
These, man, are you. You can't recognize them, because you
cannot connect.
I've had enough of your unweeded kindness. I've spoilt you long enough.
All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you.
No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled.
Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don't repent.
Only say to yourself, 'What Helen has done, I've done.'"
"The two cases are different," Henry stammered.
His real retort was not quite ready.
His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer.
"In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only
herself.
You remain in society, Helen can't. You have had only pleasure, she may die.
You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?"
Oh, the uselessness of it!
Henry's retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail.
It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband.
My rule through life has been never to pay the least attention to threats, and I can
only repeat what I said before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep at
Howards End."
Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first one
and then the other on his handkerchief.
For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of warriors, *** of the
spring. Then she passed out into what was now the
evening.
>