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 not even yet 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, that 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 to-morrow 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 rustled
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 fur 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?
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