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 queer, 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."
