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.
