Leonard--he would figure at length in a newspaper report,
but that evening he did not count for much. The foot of the
tree was in shadow, since the moon was still hidden behind
the house. But above, to right, to left, down the long
meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard seemed not a
man, but a cause.
Perhaps it was Helen's way of falling in love--a curious
way to Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henry
were yet imprinted with his image. Helen forgot people.
They were husks that had enclosed her emotion. She could
pity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts, but had she
ever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, having
lost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself in
comradeship?
Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was
Helen's evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of her--the loss
of friends and of social advantages, the agony, the supreme
agony, of motherhood, which is even yet not a matter of
common knowledge. For the present let the moon shine
brightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dying
away from the gale of the day, and let the earth, who brings
increase, bring peace. Not even to herself dare she blame
Helen. She could not assess her trespass by any moral code;
it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us that
murder is worse than stealing, and group most sins in an
order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. The
surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be
that morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they
questioned Him. It is those that cannot connect who hasten
to cast the first stone.
This was Helen's evening--won at what cost, and not to
be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy
Margaret never uttered a word.
"One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr.
Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard
downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost of
revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so,
when your letters came--"
"I need never have written them," sighed Margaret.
"They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away
the past, even for others!"
"I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the
Basts."
"Looking back, that was wrong of me."
"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is
right to save the man whom one loves. I am less
enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought you
wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his
callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time--and
Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked
for a long time to Leonard--I had snubbed him for no reason,
and that should have warned me I was in danger. So when the
notes came I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. He
said that he guessed the explanation--he knew of it, and you
mustn't know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one
must know; it was something to do with his wife. Right up
to the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss Schlegel. I was going
to tell him that he must be frank with me when I saw his
eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in two
ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I
felt very lonely myself. He is not to blame. He would have
gone on worshipping me. I want never to see him again,
though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him money and
feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about
these things!"
She laid her face against the tree.
"The little, too, that is known about growth! Both
times it was loneliness, and the night, and panic
afterwards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?"
Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was she
that her attention had actually wandered to the teeth--the
teeth that had been thrust into the tree's bark to medicate
it. From where she sat she could see them gleam. She had
been trying to count them. "Leonard is a better growth than
madness," she said. "I was afraid that you would react
against Paul until you went over the verge."
"I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady
now. I shan't ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even
speak kindly about him, but all that blinding hate is over.
I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I understand
how you married him, and you will now be very happy."
Margaret did not reply.
"Yes," repeated Helen, her voice growing more tender, "I
do at last understand."
"Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our
little movements."
"Because in death--I agree."
"Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are only
fragments of that woman's mind. She knows everything. She
is everything. She is the house, and the tree that leans
over it. People have their own deaths as well as their own
lives, and even if there is nothing beyond death, we shall
differ in our nothingness. I cannot believe that knowledge
such as hers will perish with knowledge such as mine. She
knew about realities. She knew when people were in love,
though she was not in the room. I don't doubt that she knew
when Henry deceived her."
"Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox," called a voice.
"Oh, good-night, Miss Avery."
"Why should Miss Avery work for us?" Helen murmured.
"Why, indeed?"
Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the hedge
that divided it from the farm. An old gap, which Mr. Wilcox
had filled up, had reappeared, and her track through the dew
followed the path that he had turfed over, when he improved
the garden and made it possible for games.
"This is not quite our house yet," said Helen. "When
Miss Avery called, I felt we are only a couple of tourists."
"We shall be that everywhere, and for ever."
"But affectionate tourists--"
"But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home."
"I can't pretend very long," said Helen. "Sitting under
this tree one forgets, but I know that tomorrow I shall see
the moon rise out of Germany. Not all your goodness can
alter the facts of the case. Unless you will come with me."
Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she had
grown so fond of England that to leave it was a real grief.
Yet what detained her? No doubt Henry would pardon her
outburst, and go on blustering and muddling into a ripe old
age. But what was the good? She had just as soon vanish
from his mind.
"Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get on
with your Monica?"
"You would not, but I am serious in asking you."
"Still, no more plans now. And no more reminiscences."
They were silent for a little. It was Helen's evening.
The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree
rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would
continue after their deaths, but its song was of the
moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again.
Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend
life. Life passed. The tree nestled again.
"Sleep now," said Margaret.
The peace of the country was entering into her. It has
no commerce with memory, and little with hope. Least of all
is it concerned with the hopes of the next five minutes. It
is the peace of the present, which passes understanding.
Its murmur came "now," and "now" once more as they trod the
gravel, and "now," as the moonlight fell upon their father's
sword. They passed upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endless
iterations fell asleep. The house had enshadowed the tree
at first, but as the moon rose higher the two disentangled,
and were clear for a few moments at midnight. Margaret
awoke and looked into the garden. How incomprehensible that
Leonard Bast should have won her this night of peace! Was
he also part of Mrs. Wilcox's mind?
