Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt
Juley's illness and was not even to end with Leonard's
death, it seemed impossible to Margaret that healthy life
should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical, yet
senseless, train. People lost their humanity, and took
values as arbitrary as those in a pack of playing-cards. It
was natural that Henry should do this and cause Helen to do
that, and then think her wrong for doing it; natural that
she herself should think him wrong; natural that Leonard
should want to know how Helen was, and come, and Charles be
angry with him for coming--natural, but unreal. In this
jangle of causes and effects what had become of their true
selves? Here Leonard lay dead in the garden, from natural
causes; yet life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky,
life was a house, death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower,
life and death were anything and everything, except this
ordered insanity, where the king takes the queen, and the
ace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and adventure
behind, such as the man at her feet had yearned for; there
was hope this side of the grave; there were truer
relationships beyond the limits that fetter us now. As a
prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, from the
turmoil and horror of those days, caught glimpses of the
diviner wheels.
And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm for
the child's sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but murmuring
tenderly, "No one ever told the lad he'll have a
child"--they also reminded her that horror is not the end.
To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not know, but there
seemed great chance that a child would be born into the
world, to take the great chances of beauty and adventure
that the world offers. She moved through the sunlit garden,
gathering narcissi, crimson-eyed and white. There was
nothing else to be done; the time for telegrams and anger
was over, and it seemed wisest that the hands of Leonard
should be folded on his breast and be filled with flowers.
Here was the father; leave it at that. Let Squalor be
turned into Tragedy, whose eyes are the stars, and whose
hands hold the sunset and the dawn.
And even the influx of officials, even the return of the
doctor, vulgar and acute, could not shake her belief in the
eternity of beauty. Science explained people, but could not
understand them. After long centuries among the bones and
muscles it might be advancing to knowledge of the nerves,
but this would never give understanding. One could open the
heart to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort without discovering its
secrets to them, for they wanted everything down in black
and white, and black and white was exactly what they were
left with.
They questioned her closely about Charles. She never
suspected why. Death had come, and the doctor agreed that
it was due to heart disease. They asked to see her father's
sword. She explained that Charles's anger was natural, but
mistaken. Miserable questions about Leonard followed, all
of which she answered unfalteringly. Then back to Charles
again. "No doubt Mr. Wilcox may have induced death," she
said; "but if it wasn't one thing it would have been
another, as you yourselves know." At last they thanked her,
and took the sword and the body down to Hilton. She began
to pick up the books from the floor.
Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place for
her, since she had to wait for the inquest. Though, as if
things were not hard enough, Madge and her husband had
raised trouble; they did not see why they should receive the
offscourings of Howards End. And, of course, they were
right. The whole world was going to be right, and amply
avenge any brave talk against the conventions. "Nothing
matters," the Schlegels had said in the past, "except one's
self-respect and that of one's friends." When the time came,
other things mattered terribly. However, Madge had yielded,
and Helen was assured of peace for one day and night, and
tomorrow she would return to Germany.
As for herself, she determined to go too. No message
came from Henry; perhaps he expected her to apologize. Now
that she had time to think over her own tragedy, she was
unrepentant. She neither forgave him for his behaviour nor
wished to forgive him. Her speech to him seemed perfect.
She would not have altered a word. It had to be uttered
once in a life, to adjust the lopsidedness of the world. It
was spoken not only to her husband, but to thousands of men
like him--a protest against the inner darkness in high
places that comes with a commercial age. Though he would
build up his life without hers, she could not apologize. He
had refused to connect, on the clearest issue that can be
laid before a man, and their love must take the consequences.
No, there was nothing more to be done. They had tried
not to go over the precipice but perhaps the fall was
inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the future
was certainly inevitable: cause and effect would go jangling
forward to some goal doubtless, but to none that she could
imagine. At such moments the soul retires within, to float
upon the bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion with
the dead, and sees the world's glory not diminished, but
different in kind to what she has supposed. She alters her
focus until trivial things are blurred. Margaret had been
tending this way all the winter. Leonard's death brought
her to the goal. Alas! that Henry should fade, away as
reality emerged, and only her love for him should remain
clear, stamped with his image like the cameos we rescue out
of dreams.
With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would
soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and what did
he or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He would
grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a little
sentimental about women, but emptying his glass with
anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the
rest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at
an advanced age. He would settle down--though she could not
realize this. In her eyes Henry was always moving and
causing others to move, until the ends of the earth met.
But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle down.
What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul to
its appropriate Heaven.
Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality
for herself. An eternal future had always seemed natural to
her. And Henry believed in it for himself. Yet, would they
meet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond the
grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And his
level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the
same as hers?
Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He
sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed like
water, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent and
disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it.
"Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked.
"He didn't say, madam."
"You haven't any note for me?"
"He didn't say, madam."
After a moment's thought she locked up Howards End. It
was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that would
be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was
blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the
gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the
curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now.
She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had
happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might
never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing
a little outside Charles's gate, and motioned the car to
stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to
discuss things with you outside."
"It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid,"
said Margaret. "Did you get my message?"
"What about?"
"I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you
now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last
night was more important than you have realized. I am
unable to forgive you and am leaving you."
"I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones.
"I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down."
"Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass."
The Great North Road should have been bordered all its
length with glebe. Henry's kind had filched most of it.
She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six
Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they
could not be seen by Charles or Dolly.
"Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them
towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he
did not pick them up.
"I have something to tell you," he said gently.
She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of
hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration
of the male.
"I don't want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is
going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We
must manage to build up something, she and I and her child."
"Where are you going?"
"Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill."
"After the inquest?"
"Yes."
"Have you realized what the verdict at the inquest will be?"
"Yes, heart disease."
"No, my dear; manslaughter."
Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill
beneath her moved as if it was alive.
"Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go to
prison. I dare not tell him. I don't know what to do--what
to do. I'm broken--I'm ended. "
No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to
break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the
sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next
a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in.
Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason
that he should be punished, but the law, being made in his
image, sentenced him to three years' imprisonment. Then
Henry's fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his
wife, he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to
do what she could with him. She did what seemed
easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End.
