It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley's health had been bad
all 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 generalise, 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 realise 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 should 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 for 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 stay 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 some one, 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 realise
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 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."
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