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 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
to-morrow she would return to Germany.
As for herself, she determined to go too. No message came from
Henry; perhaps he expected her to apologise. 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 apologise.
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 realise 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 realised. 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 realised 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 were 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,
notwithstanding, 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.
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