The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by
the man's deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her
arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who
was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on
the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of
tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby's
perambulator away, as they desired to be alone.
"But the diddums can't listen; he isn't nine months old," she
pleaded.
"That's not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law.
Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the
crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret.
"Is it what we feared?" he asked.
"It is."
"Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of
us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech
will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to
question you on subjects we'd both prefer to leave untouched. As
you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing
sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions
-- We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the
world, and you are a most exceptional woman."
All Margaret's senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past
him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her
colour, he grew still more kind.
"I see that you feel as I felt when-- My poor little wife! Oh, be
brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was
your sister wearing a wedding-ring?"
Margaret stammered a "No."
There was an appalling silence.
"Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End."
"One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her
seducer."
She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour
had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she
should receive his question thus.
"Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember that this is far
worse for me than for you."
She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came,
and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer's
name."
"Would she not tell you?"
"I never even asked her who seduced her," said Margaret, dwelling
on the hateful word thoughtfully.
"That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Natural perhaps,
dear girl, that you shouldn't ask. But until his name is known,
nothing can be done. Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so
upset! I knew you weren't fit for it. I wish I hadn't taken you."
Margaret answered, "I like to stand, if you don't mind, for it
gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills."
"As you like."
"Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?"
"Next you must tell me whether you have gathered anything. I have
often noticed your insight, dear. I only wish my own was as good.
You may have guessed something, even though your sister said
nothing. The slightest hint would help us."
"Who is 'we'?"
"I thought it best to ring up Charles."
"That was unnecessary," said Margaret, growing warmer. "This news
will give Charles disproportionate pain."
"He has at once gone to call on your brother."
"That too was unnecessary."
"Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don't think
that I and my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen's
interests that we are acting. It is still not too late to save
her name."
Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to make her
seducer marry her?" she asked.
"If possible, yes."
"But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has
heard of such cases."
"In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be
thrashed within an inch of his life."
So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What had
tempted her to imperil both of their lives. Henry's obtuseness
had saved her as well as himself. Exhausted with anger, she sat
down again, blinking at him as he told her as much as he thought
fit. At last she said: "May I ask you my question now?"
"Certainly, my dear."
"To-morrow Helen goes to Munich--"
"Well, possibly she is right."
"Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with
your permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End."
It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the
words as soon as they were uttered. She had not led up to them
with sufficient care. She longed to warn him that they were far
more important than he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if
they were a business proposition.
"Why Howards End?" he said at last. "Would she not be more
comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?"
Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd request, but
you know what Helen is and what women in her state are." He
frowned, and moved irritably. "She has the idea that one night in
your house would give her pleasure and do her good. I think
she's right. Being one of those imaginative girls, the presence
of all our books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is
the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, 'A beautiful
ending.'"
"She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact."
"Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being
with it."
"I don't agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the
goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you
are so fond of her that you'd give her anything of yours that she
fancies, wouldn't you? and I'd raise no objection. I could
understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a
house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a
telling point--"because a house in which one has once lived
becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don't know why. Associations
and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though
I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay
the night there. She will only catch cold."
"Leave it that you don't see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy.
But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful,
and wants to."
Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected
bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two.
We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps."
"Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose
we don't get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do
no one any harm."
Again the irritated gesture.
"No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn't mean that. We will
only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to
London to-morrow--"
"Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?"
"She cannot be left alone."
"That's quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet
Charles."
"I have already told you that your message to Charles was
unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him."
"Margaret--my Margaret."
"What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me
little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all."
"As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his
fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles."
"In what way? Will Helen's condition depreciate the property?"
"My dear, you are forgetting yourself."
"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."
They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at
their feet now.
"Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I
shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she
will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat
her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position
in society if I did."
She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to
Helen's request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request
of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble
society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty
house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have
not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister
leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as
you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only.
That will be enough."
"As I have actually been forgiven--?"
"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret.
"Answer my question."
Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he
blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem
rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and
know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister
had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory
of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves
my house at once."
"You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox."
"I beg your pardon?"
"A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?"
"You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from
his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized
both his hands. She was transfigured.
"Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection
if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you.
My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see
the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a
man who insults his wife when she's alive and cants with her
memory when she's dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure,
and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial
advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you.
You can't recognise them, because you cannot connect. I've had
enough of your unneeded kindness. I've spoilt you long enough.
All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No
one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men
like you use repentance as a blind, so don't repent. Only say to
yourself, 'What Helen has done, I've done.'"
"The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort
was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he
wanted a little longer.
"In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only
herself. You remain in society, Helen can't. You have had only
pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of
differences, Henry?"
Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry's retort came.
"I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty
weapon for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through
life has been never to pay the least attention to threats, and I
can only repeat what I said before: I do not give you and your
sister leave to sleep at Howards End."
Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first
one and then the other on his handkerchief. For a little she
stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of warriors, breasts of the
spring. Then she passed out into what was now the evening.
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