Far different was Leonard's development. The months after Oniton,
whatever minor troubles they might bring him, were all
overshadowed by Remorse. When Helen looked back she could
philosophise, or she could look into the future and plan for her
child. But the father saw nothing beyond his own sin. Weeks
afterwards, in the midst of other occupations, he would suddenly
cry out, "Brute--you brute, I couldn't have--" and be rent into
two people who held dialogues. Or brown rain would descend,
blotting out faces and the sky. Even Jacky noticed the change in
him. Most terrible were his sufferings when he awoke from sleep.
Sometimes he was happy at first, but grew conscious of a burden
hanging to him and weighing down his thoughts when they would
move. Or little irons scorched his body. Or a sword stabbed him.
He would sit at the edge of his bed, holding his heart and
moaning, "Oh what SHALL I do, whatever SHALL I do?" Nothing
brought ease. He could put distance between him and the trespass,
but it grew in his soul.
Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The Greeks were right
to dethrone her. Her action is too capricious, as though the
Erinyes selected for punishment only certain men and certain
sins. And of all means to regeneration Remorse is surely the most
wasteful. It cuts away healthy tissues with the poisoned. It is a
knife that probes far deeper than the evil. Leonard was driven
straight through its torments and emerged pure, but enfeebled--a
better man, who would never lose control of himself again, but
also a smaller man, who had less to control. Nor did purity mean
peace. The use of the knife can become a habit as hard to shake
off as passion itself, and Leonard continued to start with a cry
out of dreams.
He built up a situation that was far enough from the truth. It
never occurred to him that Helen was to blame. He forgot the
intensity of their talk, the charm that had been lent him by
sincerity, the magic of Oniton under darkness and of the
whispering river. Helen loved the absolute. Leonard had been
ruined absolutely, and had appeared to her as a man apart,
isolated from the world. A real man, who cared for adventure and
beauty, who desired to live decently and pay his way, who could
have travelled more gloriously through life than the juggernaut
car that was crushing him. Memories of Evie's wedding had warped
her, the starched servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustle
of overdressed women, motor-cars oozing grease on the gravel, a
pretentious band. She had tasted the lees of this on her arrival;
in the darkness, after failure, they intoxicated her. She and the
victim seemed alone in a world of unreality, and she loved him
absolutely, perhaps for half an hour.
In the morning she was gone. The note that she left, tender and
hysterical in tone, and intended to be most kind, hurt her lover
terribly. It was as if some work of art had been broken by him,
some picture in the National Gallery slashed out of its frame.
When he recalled her talents and her social position, he felt
that the first passer-by had a right to shoot him down. He was
afraid of the waitress and the porters at the railway-station. He
was afraid at first of his wife, though later he was to regard
her with a strange new tenderness, and to think, "There is
nothing to choose between us, after all."
The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts permanently.
Helen in her flight forgot to settle the hotel bill, and took
their return tickets away with her; they had to pawn Jacky's
bangles to get home, and the smash came a few days afterwards. It
is true that Helen offered him five thousand pounds, but such a
sum meant nothing to him. He could not see that the girl was
desperately righting herself, and trying to save something out of
the disaster, if it was only five thousand pounds. But he had to
live somehow. He turned to his family, and degraded himself to a
professional beggar. There was nothing else for him to do.
"A letter from Leonard," thought Blanche, his sister; "and after
all this time." She hid it, so that her husband should not see,
and when he had gone to his work read it with some emotion, and
sent the prodigal a little money out of her dress allowance.
"A letter from Leonard!" said the other sister, Laura, a few days
later. She showed it to her husband. He wrote a cruel, insolent
reply, but sent more money than Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to
him again.
And during the winter the system was developed.
Leonard realised that they need never starve, because it would be
too painful for his relatives. Society is based on the family,
and the clever wastrel can exploit this indefinitely. Without a
generous thought on either side, pounds and pounds passed. The
donors disliked Leonard, and he grew to hate them intensely. When
Laura censured his immoral marriage, he thought bitterly, "She
minds that! What would she say if she knew the truth?" When
Blanche's husband offered him work, he found some pretext for
avoiding it. He had wanted work keenly at Oniton, but too much
anxiety had shattered him, he was joining the unemployable. When
his brother, the lay-reader, did not reply to a letter, he wrote
again, saying that he and Jacky would come down to his village on
foot. He did not intend this as blackmail. Still the brother sent
a postal order, and it became part of the system. And so passed
his winter and his spring.
In the horror there are two bright spots. He never confused the
past. He remained alive, and blessed are those who live, if it is
only to a sense of sinfulness. The anodyne of muddledom, by which
most men blur and blend their mistakes, never passed Leonard's
lips--
"And if I drink oblivion of a day,
So shorten I the stature of my soul."
It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it lies at the
root of all character.
And the other bright spot was his tenderness for Jacky. He pitied
her with nobility now--not the contemptuous pity of a man who
sticks to a woman through thick and thin. He tried to be less
irritable. He wondered what her hungry eyes desired--nothing that
she could express, or that he or any man could give her. Would
she ever receive the justice that is mercy--the justice for
by-products that the world is too busy to bestow? She was fond of
flowers, generous with money, and not revengeful. If she had
borne him a child he might have cared for her. Unmarried, Leonard
would never have begged; he would have flickered out and died.
But the whole of life is mixed. He had to provide for Jacky, and
went down dirty paths that she might have a few feathers and the
dishes of food that suited her.
One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother. He was in
St. Paul's. He had entered the cathedral partly to avoid the rain
and partly to see a picture that had educated him in former
years. But the light was bad, the picture ill placed, and Time
and judgment were inside him now. Death alone still charmed him,
with her lap of poppies, on which all men shall sleep. He took
one glance, and turned aimlessly away towards a chair. Then down
the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and her brother. They stood in the
fairway of passengers, and their faces were extremely grave. He
was perfectly certain that they were in trouble about their
sister.
Once outside--and he fled immediately--he wished that he had
spoken to them. What was his life? What were a few angry words,
or even imprisonment? He had done wrong--that was the true
terror. Whatever they might know, he would tell them everything
he knew. He re-entered St. Paul's. But they had moved in his
absence, and had gone to lay their difficulties before Mr. Wilcox
and Charles.
The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new channels. He
desired to confess, and though the desire is proof of a weakened
nature, which is about to lose the essence of human intercourse,
it did not take an ignoble form. He did not suppose that
confession would bring him happiness. It was rather that he
yearned to get clear of the tangle. So does the suicide yearn.
The impulses are akin, and the crime of suicide lies rather in
its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.
Confession need harm no one--it can satisfy that test--and
though it was un-English, and ignored by our Anglican cathedral,
Leonard had a right to decide upon it.
Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her hardness now. That
cold, intellectual nature of hers would be just, if unkind. He
would do whatever she told him, even if he had to see Helen. That
was the supreme punishment she would exact. And perhaps she would
tell him how Helen was. That was the supreme reward.
He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether she was married
to Mr. Wilcox, and tracking her out took several days. That
evening he toiled through the wet to Wickham Place, where the new
flats were now appearing. Was he also the cause of their move?
Were they expelled from society on his account? Thence to a
public library, but could find no satisfactory Schlegel in the
directory. On the morrow he searched again. He hung about outside
Mr. Wilcox's office at lunch time, and, as the clerks came out
said, "Excuse me, sir, but is your boss married?" Most of them
stared, some said, "What's that to you?" but one, who had not yet
acquired reticence, told him what he wished. Leonard could not
learn the private address. That necessitated more trouble with
directories and tubes. Ducie Street was not discovered till the
Monday, the day that Margaret and her husband went down on their
hunting expedition to Howards End.
He called at about four o'clock. The weather had changed, and the
sun shone gaily on the ornamental steps--black and white marble
in triangles. Leonard lowered his eyes to them after ringing the
bell. He felt in curious health; doors seemed to be opening and
shutting inside his body, and he had been obliged to sleep
sitting up in bed, with his back propped against the wall. When
the parlourmaid came he could not see her face; the brown rain
had descended suddenly.
"Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?" he asked.
"She's out," was the answer.
"When will she be back?"
"I'll ask," said the parlourmaid.
Margaret had given instructions that no one who mentioned her
name should ever be rebuffed. Putting the door on the chain--for
Leonard's appearance demanded this--she went through to the
smoking-room, which was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He
had had a good lunch. Charles Wilcox had not yet rung him up for
the distracting interview. He said drowsily: "I don't know.
Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?"
"I'll ask, sir."
"No, don't bother."
"They have taken the car to Howards End," said the parlourmaid to
Leonard.
He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was.
"You appear to want to know a good deal," she remarked. But
Margaret had forbidden her to be mysterious. She told him against
her better judgment that Howards End was in Hertfordshire.
"Is it a village, please?"
"Village! It's Mr. Wilcox's private house--at least, it's one of
them. Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture there. Hilton is the
village."
"Yes. And when will they be back?"
"Mr. Schlegel doesn't know. We can't know everything, can we?"
She shut him out, and went to attend to the telephone, which was
ringing furiously.
He loitered away another night of agony. Confession grew more
difficult. As soon as possible he went to bed. He watched a patch
of moonlight cross the floor of their lodging, and, as sometimes
happens when the mind is overtaxed, he fell asleep for the rest
of the room, but kept awake for the patch of moonlight. Horrible!
Then began one of those disintegrating dialogues. Part of him
said: "Why horrible? It's ordinary light from the moon." "But
it moves." "So does the moon." "But it is a clenched fist."
"Why not?" "But it is going to touch me." "Let it." And, seeming
to gather motion, the patch ran up his blanket. Presently a blue
snake appeared; then another parallel to it. "Is there life in
the moon?" "Of course." "But I thought it was uninhabited."
"Not by Time, Death, Judgment, and the smaller snakes." "Smaller
snakes!" said Leonard indignantly and aloud. "What a notion!" By
a rending effort of the will he woke the rest of the room up.
Jacky, the bed, their food, their clothes on the chair, gradually
entered his consciousness, and the horror vanished outwards, like
a ring that is spreading through water.
"I say, Jacky, I'm going out for a bit."
She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fell clear of the
striped blanket, and began to cover the shawl that lay over her
feet. Why had he been afraid? He went to the window, and saw that
the moon was descending through a clear sky. He saw her volcanoes,
and the bright expanses that a gracious error has named seas.
They paled, for the sun, who had lit them up, was coming to light
the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea of Tranquillity, Ocean of the
Lunar Storms, merged into one lucent drop, itself to slip into
the sempiternal dawn. And he had been afraid of the moon!
He dressed among the contending lights, and went through his
money. It was running low again, but enough for a return ticket
to Hilton. As it clinked, Jacky opened her eyes.
"Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!"
"What ho, Jacky! see you again later."
She turned over and slept.
The house was unlocked, their landlord being a salesman at Covent
Garden. Leonard passed out and made his way down to the station.
The train, though it did not start for an hour, was already drawn
up at the end of the platform, and he lay down in it and slept.
With the first jolt he was in daylight; they had left the
gateways of King's Cross, and were under blue sky. Tunnels
followed, and after each the sky grew bluer, and from the
embankment at Finsbury Park he had his first sight of the sun. It
rolled along behind the eastern smokes--a wheel, whose fellow was
the descending moon--and as yet it seemed the servant of the blue
sky, not its lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it was day.
To the left fell the shadow of the embankment and its arches; to
the right Leonard saw up into the Tewin Woods and towards the
church, with its wild legend of immortality. Six forest trees--
that is a fact--grow out of one of the graves in Tewin
churchyard. The grave's occupant--that is the legend--is an
atheist, who declared that if God existed, six forest trees would
grow out of her grave. These things in Hertfordshire; and farther
afield lay the house of a hermit--Mrs. Wilcox had known him--who
barred himself up, and wrote prophecies, and gave all he had to
the poor. While, powdered in between, were the villas of business
men, who saw life more steadily, though with the steadiness of
the half-closed eye. Over all the sun was streaming, to all the
birds were singing, to all the primroses were yellow, and the
speedwell blue, and the country, however they interpreted her,
was uttering her cry of "now." She did not free Leonard yet, and
the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the train drew up at
Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful.
Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. Leonard
noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it into the country.
Here men had been up since dawn. Their hours were ruled, not by a
London office, but by the movements of the crops and the sun.
That they were men of the finest type only the sentimentalists
can declare. But they kept to the life of daylight. They are
England's hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch of the sun,
until such time as the nation sees fit to take it up. Half
clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can still throw back to
a nobler stock, and breed yeomen.
At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another type, whom
Nature favours--the Imperial. Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes
to inherit the earth. It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as
soundly; strong is the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman,
who carries his country's virtue overseas. But the Imperialist is
not what he thinks or seems. He is a destroyer. He prepares the
way for cosmopolitanism, and though his ambitions may be fulfilled,
the earth that he inherits will be grey.
To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction
of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he
had been taught at school. Again and again must the drums tap,
and the goblins stalk over the universe before joy can be purged
of the superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from his
sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him--
that is the best account of it that has yet been given. Squalor
and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in us, and strengthen
the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain that they
will, for they are not love's servants. But they can beckon, and
the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him.
As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory
notions stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but
happy, ashamed, but had done no sin. He knew the confession:
"Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong," but sunrise had robbed its
meaning, and he felt rather on a supreme adventure.
He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he
found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would
be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret's
amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he
had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now
thrash him within an inch of his life."
"Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong."
The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick."
Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt
him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over
him in a shower. Nothing had sense.
"Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept
very calm. "He's shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here,
carry him out into the air."
Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him.
They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured
water over him.
"That's enough," said Charles.
"Yes, murder's enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house
with the sword.
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