 32 She was looking at plans one day in the following spring. They had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build, when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "'Have you heard the news?' Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "'Charles is so ang—I mean he is sure you know about it, or rather that you don't know.' "'Why, Dolly?' said Margaret, placidly kissing her. Here's a surprise. How are the boys and the baby?' Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said. Charles had said. The tax-collector had said. Charles had regretted not saying, and she closed the description with, "'But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst!' "'It will be very jolly,' replied Margaret. "'Are those the plans? Does it matter be seeing them?' "'Of course not.' "'Charles has never seen the plans.' "'They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor. No, that's rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque skyline.' "'What makes it smell so funny?' said Dolly, after a moment's inspection, she was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "'I suppose the paper. And which way up is it?' "'And just the ordinary way up. That's the skyline, and the part that smells strongest is the sky.' "'Well, ask me another. Margaret, oh, what was I going to say?' "'How's Helen?' "'Quite well.' "'Is she never coming back to England? Everyone thinks it's awfully odd she doesn't.' "'So it is,' said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "'Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months.' "'But hasn't she any address?' "'A post-restaurant somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you.' "'No, don't bother. That's eight months she's been away surely.' "'Exactly. She left just after Evie's wedding. It would be eight months.' "'Just when baby was born, then?' "'Just so.' Dolly sighed and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles's were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathized, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. "'Oh, yes,' she cried, "'that is it. Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases.' "'Why has she done that? How unnecessary?' "'Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to.' "'I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire.' "'It was far more than an air,' said Dolly solemnly. "'The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don't know.' "'Books,' cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. "'Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our books?' "'Hasn't she, though? What used to be the halls full of them? Charles thought for certain you knew of it.' "'I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my brothers and quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the cases.' "'I say she's dotty. She was the one that never got married, you know.' "'Oh, I say, perhaps she thinks your books are wedding-presence to herself. Old maids are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie.' "'I hadn't heard of that,' said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its compensations.' "'Didn't she know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned it? And then—oh, galoshes! You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote.' "'But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn't like her to do such a heartless thing.' "'But the present was so expensive.' "'Why does that make any difference, Dolly?' "'Still, when it costs over five pounds—I didn't see it—but it was a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can't very well accept that kind of thing from a farmwoman. Now can you?' "'You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married.' "'Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff—not worth a half-penny. Evie's was quite different. You'd have to ask any one to the wedding who gave you a pendant like that.' Uncle Percy and Albert and Father and Charles all said it was quite impossible, and when four men agree, what is a girl to do?' Evie didn't want to upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter best, and returned the pendant straight to the shop to save Miss Avery trouble. "'But Miss Avery,' said. Dolly's eyes grew round. It was a perfectly awful letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman. In the end, she had the pendant back again from the shop, and threw it into the duck pond. Did she give any reasons? We think she meant to be invited to Onerton, and so climb into society. "'She's rather old for that,' said Margaret pensively. May she not have given the present to Evie in remembrance of her mother.' "'That's a notion. Give everyone their due, eh?' "'Well, I suppose I ought to be toddling. Come along, Mr. Muff. You want a new coat, but I don't know who'll give it to you, I'm sure.' And addressing her apparel with mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room. Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew about Miss Avery's rudeness. "'Oh, yes!' I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after the house. "'But she's only a farm woman,' said Dolly, and her explanation proved correct. Henry only sent her the lower classes when it suited him. He bore with Miss Avery, as with Crane, because he could get good value out of them. "'I have patience with a man who knows his job,' he would say, really having patience with the job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may sound, he had something of the artist about him. He would pass over an insult to his daughter, sooner than lose a good charwoman for his wife.' Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble herself. Parties were evidently ruffled. With Henry's permission she wrote a pleasant note to Miss Avery, asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the first convenient opportunity, she went down herself, intending to repack her belongings and store them properly in the local warehouse. The plan had been amateurish and a failure. Tibbie promised to accompany her, but at the last moment begged to be excused. So, for the second time in her life, she entered the house alone. E. M. Forster Chapter 33 The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of unclouded happiness that she was to have for many months. Her anxiety about Helen's extraordinary absence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush with Miss Avery, that only gave zest to the expedition. She had also eluded Dolly's invitation to luncheon. Walking straight up from the station, she crossed the village green and entered the long Chestnut Avenue that connects it with the church. The church itself stood in the village once, but it there attracted so many worshipers that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from its foundations, and poised it on an inconvenient knoll three-quarters of a mile away. If this story is true, the Chestnut Avenue must have been planted by the angels. No more tempting approach could be imagined for the lukewarm Christian, and if he still finds the walk too long, the devil is defeated all the same. Science having built Holy Trinity, a chapel of ease, near the Charles's, and roofed it with ten. Up the avenue, Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to watch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches of the Chestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes on the lower branches. Why has not England a great mythology? Our folklore has never advanced beyond daintiness, and the greater melodies about our countryside have all issued through the pipes of Greece. Deep and true as the native imagination can be, it seems to have failed here. It has stopped with the witches and the fairies. It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer field, or give names to half a dozen stars. England still waits for the supreme moment of her literature, for the great poet who shall voice her, or better still, for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass into our common talk. At the church the scenery changed. The Chestnut Avenue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which led into the untouched country. She followed it for over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, or about the view, which nevertheless expanded. The greatest states that throttled the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive here, and the appearance of the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban. To define it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not. It was not snobbish. Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain, and the distant brow of the Chilterns towered like a mountain. Left to itself was Margaret's opinion. This county would vote liberal. The comradeship, not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for the key. But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person received her. Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. No, Mrs. Wilcox. Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you? Followed by, Of course, Auntie does not generally look after your place. She only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes, Where's Auntie? I say, need you ask, she's at Howard's end. Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you. Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this acquired her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery's niece. I cannot let you go on alone. Now, don't. You really mustn't. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now, roguishly, Mrs. Wilcox, don't you move while I am gone? Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlor, over which the touch of Art Nouveau had fallen, but the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we looked back with disquietude. The country which we visited weekends was really a home to it, and the graversides of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have the deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding golden rose. Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily, and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness, and its eternal youth, connect, connect without bitterness, until all men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Pisaverie's niece, and were so tranquilizing that she suffered the interruption gladly. It was quicker to go out by the back door, and after due explanations they went out by it. The niece was now mortified by unnumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie's pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves stiffened buds seemed to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. Georgia, sang the thrush, cuckoo, came furtively from the cliff of pine trees. Georgia, pretty Georgia, and the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture, which would be finished in a few days. Selendine's grew on its banks. Lords and ladies and prim-rose is in the defended hollows. The wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs. Fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany, with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged they reached Howard's end. Pettulent cries of— Auntie! severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here? asked Margaret. Oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Quite sure. She is here daily. Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly, so with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember them being there on her other visit. Her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing. The kitchen window was fitted with the blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. Well, well! replied someone inside the house. If it isn't Mrs. Wilcox come at last. Have you got the key, Aunty? Madge, go away! said Miss Avery, still invisible. Aunty, it's Mrs. Wilcox. Margaret supported her. Your niece and I have come together. Madge, go away! This is no moment for your hat. The poor woman went red. Aunty gets more eccentric lately, she said nervously. Miss Avery! called Margaret. I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in? Yes, Mrs. Wilcox, said the voice. Of course. But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolently. I hope Miss Avery is not ill. Hazardened Margaret. Well, if you'll excuse me, said Madge. Perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Aunty is so odd at times. Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and as if her departure had loosed to spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox. Quite pleasantly and calmly. Thank you so much, began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella stand. It was her own. Come right into the hole first, said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window, the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father's sword—this is what bewildered her particularly—had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. I'm afraid this isn't what we meant, she began. Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brothers. We are storing them for him, and for my sister, who was abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much. The house has been empty long enough, said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. I dare say we didn't explain, she said civilly. It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake. Mrs. Wilcox—it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox's, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer. To help the poor, decaying brain, Margaret said. Yes, Mrs. Wilcox's house—the mother of Mr. Charles. Mistake upon mistake, said Miss Avery. Mistake upon mistake. Well, I don't know, said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. I really don't know what's to be done. She could not help laughing. The other said, Yes, it should be a merry-house enough. I don't know. I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that's all right. Delightful. There is still the Paula. She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room and the drawing-room furniture from Wiccan Place. And the dining-room. More curtains were drawn. More windows were flung open to the spring. Then through here, Miss Avery continued passing and repassing through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. I've not finished here yet," she announced, returning. There's still a deal to do. The farm-lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there's no need to go into expense at Hilton. It is all a mistake, repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down. A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howard's End. Oh, indeed! On account of his hay-fever! We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex. And part of this furniture, my part, will go down there presently. She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no wandering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing wit, and also of high but unastentatious nobility. You think that you won't come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will. That remains to be seen, said Margaret, smiling. We have no intention of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day—one never knows, does one? Miss Avery retorted, some day— Don't talk about some day. You are living here now. Am I? You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me. It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty, Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother Chiffonnier, and upstairs were many an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room, over the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years ago, Miss Avery had placed Tibby's old bassinet. The nursery, she said. Margaret turned away without speaking. At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with furniture and straw, but as far as she could make out, nothing had been broken or scratched—a pathetic display of ingenuity. Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage, and Evie's rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery's oddness, but Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl's silly letter had but loosed the irritation of years. "'It's a beautiful meadow,' she remarked. It was one of those open-air drawing-rooms that had been formed hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields, so the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles, and at the bottom there was a little green annex, a sort of powder closet for the cows. "'Yes, the maid is well enough,' said Miss Avery, for those that is, who don't suffer from sneezing.' And she cackled maliciously. "'I've seen Charlie Wilcox go out to my lads in hay-time. Oh, they ought to do this. They mustn't do that. He'd learn them to be lads. And just then the tickling took him. He adds it from his father, with other things. There's not one Wilcox that can stand up against a field in June. I laughed, fit to burst, while he was courting Ruth.' "'My brother gets hay fever, too,' said Margaret. "'This house lies too much on the land for them. Naturally they were glad enough to slip in at first. But Wilcox is a better than nothing, as I see you found.' Margaret laughed. "'They keep a place going, don't they? Yes, it is just that.' "'They keep England going, it is my opinion.' But Miss Avery upset her by replying. "'Aye, they breed like rabbits.' "'Well, well, it's a funny world.' "'But he who made it knows what he wants in it, I suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting a fourth, it isn't for us to repine.' "'They breed, and they also work,' said Margaret, conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. "'It certainly is a funny world. But so long as men like my husband and his sons govern it, I think it'll never be a bad one—never really bad.' "'No, better than nothing,' said Miss Avery, and turned to the witch-elm. On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old friend much more clearly than before. In the house Margaret had wondered whether she quite distinguished the first wife from the second. Now she said, "'I never saw much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we stayed civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs. Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let anyone be turned away without food. Then it was never—trespassers will be prosecuted, in their land. But would people please not come in?' Mrs. Howard was never created to run a farm. "'How do they know men to help them?' Margaret asked. Miss Avery replied. Things went on until there were no men. Until Mr. Wilcox came along. Corrected Margaret, anxious that her husband should receive his dues. I suppose so. But Ruth should have married her. No disrespect to you to say this, for I take it you were intended to get Wilcox any way, whether she got him first or no. "'Whom should she have married?' "'A soldier,' exclaimed the old woman. Some real soldier.' Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry's character far more trenchant than any of her own. She felt dissatisfied. "'But that's all over,' she went on. "'A better time is coming now, though you've kept me long enough waiting. In a couple of weeks I'll see your light shining through the hedge of an evening. Have you ordered in coals?' "'We are not coming,' said Margaret firmly. She respected Miss Avery too much to humour her. "'No—not coming—never coming. It has all been a mistake. The furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry, but I am making other arrangements, and must ask you to give me the keys.' "'Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox,' said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties with a smile. Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her compliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the station. She had intended to go to the furniture warehouse and give directions for removal, but the muddle had turned out more extensive than she expected, so she decided to consult Henry. It was as well that she did this. He was strongly against employing the local man whom he had previously recommended, and advised her to store in London, after all. But before this could be done, an unexpected trouble fell upon her. Howard's End by E. M. Forster Chapter 34 It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Julie's health had been bad all the 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 tie some chest in hand, when she caught a chill and developed acute pneumonia. Margaret and Tibbie 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 generalize, but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love. Not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion. Aunt Julie, 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 realize 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 Tibbie liked them? She worried herself about Helen's absence, and also that she could 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 Lullworth when Helen comes! Helen won't be able to stop, Aunt Julie. 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. Mundt 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 Condor. I have been a little walk with Miss Condor. But she is not really interesting, if only you had Helen. I have Tibi, Aunt Julie. 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 stark 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 stop away eight months argues that the heart is a rye 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 post-restaunt. 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 Onneton, the unbalanced patronage of the Bastes, 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 Wilcox's had eaten into her life until she was scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had an e-day fix. 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 Howard's End was vital. It propagated itself where grave or 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 Julie. 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 Julie 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 attire some 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 Julie 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 colors flying a little longer. She replied that their Aunt was much better and awaited developments. Tibbie 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 18 and 22, 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 students' 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 judgments 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 and 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. Sea-monumentum requirus, circumspecce, 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 you're aunt, then your sister. No, we aren't going to have it. Are we tibbled? He rang the bell. I'll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducey 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 have a shell. He lent 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 someone, or wanted to help them. There is 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. Troubly about her, I mean. Henry began to grow serious. Ill health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realize that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights. They were outside the pail. One could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down to Hartfordshire, 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 Howard's 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 moat around the corner, and we can run her up to a specialist in no time. Margaret shook her head. It's quite impossible. Why? It doesn't seem impossible to me, said Tibi. 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 Tibi. 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— Cheryl surprised them by interrupting. Peter, we may as well keep hounds and 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 grossly—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 Howard's 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 went to lunch with Dolly, and then ambushed themselves in the garden. After they had gone, Mr. Wilcock said to his son, I can't have the sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret's too sweet nature to mind, but I mind for her. Charles made no answer. Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon? No, Peter, but he may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon. How? Don't ask me. END OF CHAPTER XXXV One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children have only one mood. They are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue. The same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow. The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance. Time might never have moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone with his schemes and ailments was troubling nature until he saw her through a veil of tears. She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other standard by which to judge him. She must trust him absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie. They went down in the morning as arranged, and he discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton. On his arrival he called it all the livery stables in the village, and had a few minutes serious conversation with the proprietors. What he said Margaret did not know—perhaps not the truth—but news arrived after lunch that a lady had come by the London train, and had taken a fly to Howard's End. She was bound to drive, said Henry. There will be her books. I cannot make it out, said Margaret for the hundredth time. Finish your coffee, dear. You must be off. Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty, said Daly. Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her eyes. Daly stole glances at her father-in-law, which he did not answer. In the silence the motor came round to the door. You're not fit for it, he said anxiously. Let me go alone. I know exactly what to do. Oh, yes, I am fit, said Margaret, uncovering her face. Only most frightfully worried. I cannot feel that Helen is really alive. Her letters and telegrams seem to have come from someone else. Her voice isn't in them. I don't believe your driver really saw her at the station. I wish I'd never mentioned it. I know that Charles has vexed. Yes, he is. She seized Daly's hand and kissed it. There. Daly will forgive me. There. Now we'll be off. Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not like this breakdown. Don't you want to tie to yourself? he asked. Have I time? Yes, plenty. She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as soon as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly, Dolly, I'm going without her. Daly's eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tiptoe out to the car. Tell her I thought it best. Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see. Say anything you like. All right. The car started well, and with ordinary luck would have got away. But poor Glee Waggles, who was playing in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in the middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one wheel over a bed of wall-flowers. Dolly screamed. Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and was in time to jump on the footboard. She said not a single word. He was only treating her as she had treated Helen, and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate what Helen would feel against them. She thought, I deserve it. I am punished for lowering my colours. And she accepted his apologies with a calmness that astonished him. I still consider you are not fit for it, he kept saying. Perhaps I was not at lunch, but the whole thing is spread clearly before me now. I was meaning to act for the best. Just lend me your scarf, will you? This wind takes one's hair so. Certainly, dear girl, are you all right now? Look, my hands have stopped trembling. And have quite forgiven me. Then listen. Her calves should already have arrived at Howard's End. We're a little late, but no matter. Our first move will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn't want to see before servants. A certain gentleman—he pointed at Crane's back—won't drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the house? Yes. Well, they aren't wanted. Do you remember how the house stands? Yes. If we don't find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our object—here they start to pick up the doctor. I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to frighten Michnagle. The house, as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently nervous. Wouldn't you say so, Margaret?" The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that was likely to alienate her from her family? Nothing, answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she had added, though she did resent my husband's immorality. She always was highly strong, pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as it shot past the church. A tendency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing serious—musical, literary, artistic—but I should say normal, a very charming girl. Margaret's anger and terror increased every moment. How dare these men label her sister? What horrors lay ahead? What impergenences that shelter under the name of science? The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her human rights, and it seemed to Margaret that all schlegels were threatened with her. Were they normal? What a question to ask! And it is always those who know nothing about human nature, who are bored by psychology and shocked by physiology, who ask it. However piteous her sister's state, she knew that she must be on her side. They would be mad together if the world chose to consider them so. It was now five minutes past three. The car slowed down by the farm, in the yard of which Miss Avery was standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had gone past. She nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of it at the end of the lane. The car ran silently like a beast of prey. So unsuspicious was Helen that she was sitting on the porch, with her back to the road. She had come. Only her head and shoulders were visible. She sat framed in the vine, and one of her hands played with the buds. The wind ruffled her hair, the sun glorified it. She was, as she had always been. Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her husband could prevent her, she slipped out. She ran to the garden gate, which was shut, passed through it, and deliberately pushed it in his face. The noise alarmed Helen. Margaret saw her rise with an unfamiliar movement, and rushing into the porch, learnt the simple explanation of all their fears. Her sister was with child. Is the truant all right? called Henry. She had time to whisper, Oh, my darling! the keys of the house were in her hand. She unlocked Howard's End, and thrust Helen into it. Yes, all right! she said, and stood with her back to the door. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 of Howard's End This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Clett Howard's End by E. M. Forster Chapter 36 Margaret, you look upset! said Henry. Man's Bridge had followed. Crane was at the gate, and the flyman had stood up on the box. Margaret shook her head at them. She could not speak any more. She remained clutching the keys, as if all their future depended on them. Henry was asking more questions. She shook her head again. His words had no sense. She heard him wonder why she had let Helen in. You might have given me a knock with the gate, was another of his remarks. Presently she heard herself speaking. She, or someone for her, said, go away. Henry came nearer. He repeated, Margaret, you look upset again. My dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with Helen? Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage at all. Manage what? He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed, if it had not been for the doctor. Stop that, at least, she said piteously. The doctor had turned back, and was questioning the driver of Helen's cab. A new feeling came over her. She was fighting for women against men. She did not care about rights, but if men came into Howard's End, it should be over her body. Come, this is an old beginning, said her husband. The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox. The scandal was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. I cannot help it, said Margaret. Do wait. It's not my fault. Please, all four of you, to go away now. Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox, said the young doctor. Could you go in and persuade your sister to come out? On what grounds, said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the eyes. Thinking it professional to pervericate, he murmured something about a nervous breakdown. I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You are not qualified to attend my system, Mr. Mansbridge. If we require your services, we will let you know. I can diagnose the case more bluntly, if you wish," he retorted. You could, but you have not. You are therefore not qualified to attend my sister. Come, come, Margaret," said Henry, never raising his eyes. This is a terrible business, an appalling business. It's doctor's orders. Open the door. Forgive me, but I will not. I don't agree. Margaret was silent. This business is as broad as it is long," contributed the doctor. We had better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you. Quite so, said Henry. I do not need you in the least, said Margaret. The two men looked at each other anxiously. No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement. Margaret! Margaret! Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now? Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support, for there was trouble ahead. It all turns an affection now, said Margaret. Affection! Don't you see? Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with her finger. Surely, you see, I like Helen very much. You, not so much. Mr. Mansbridge doesn't know her. That's all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives rights. Put that down in your notebook, Mr. Mansbridge. It's a useful formula. Henry told her to be calm. You don't know what you want yourselves, said Margaret, folding her arms. For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I'll stand here all the day sooner. Man's bridge! said Henry in a low voice. Perhaps not now. The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went back into the car. Now, Henry, you! she said gently. None of her bitterness had been directed at him. Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive me if I have been cross. But seriously, you must go. He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him. I shall soon find you down at Dolly's, she called. As the gate at last clanged between them, the fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm carts came up in the middle. But she waited through all, for there was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she opened the door. Oh, my darling! she said. My darling, forgive me! Helen was standing in the hall. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 of Howard's End This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett Howard's End by E. M. Forster Chapter 37 Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice that came strangely from her, said, Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want. I told you nothing that was true. It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Julie been ill? Helen, you wouldn't think I'd invent that. I suppose not, said Helen, turning away and crying a very little. But one loses faith in everything after this. We thought it was illness, but even then, I haven't behaved worthily. Helen selected another book. I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me? She did not think of questioning her sister, nor of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed—that want of confidence that is the work of the devil. Yes, I am annoyed, replied Helen. My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Julie recovered it was not necessary—planning my life as I now have to do. Come away from those books, Carl Margaret. Helen do talk to me. I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can't go through a great deal of—she missed out the noun—without planning one's actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known. But why didn't you tell me, dearest? Yes, replied Helen judicially, I might have, but decided to wait. I believe you would never have told me. Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich. Margaret glanced out of window. By we I mean myself and Monica, but for her I am, and have been, and always wish to be, alone. I have not heard of Monica. You wouldn't have. She is an Italian, by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on guarder. Monica is much the best person to see me through. You are very fond of her, then. She has been extraordinarily sensible with me. Margaret guessed at Monica's type. Italiano inglesiato, they had named it, the crude feminist of the south, whom one respects but avoids, and Helen had turned to it in her need. You must not think that we shall never meet, said Helen, with a measured kindness. I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer that you can be with me the better. But you haven't understood yet, Meg. And, of course, it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn't to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won't be changed by a slight contretomb such as this. I cannot live in England. Helen, you've not forgiven me for my treachery. You couldn't talk like this to me if you had. Oh, Meg, dear, why do we talk at all? She dropped a book inside, wearily. Then recovering herself, she said. Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here? A series of mistakes. And a great deal of the furniture has been unpacked. All. Who lives here, then? No one. I suppose you are letting it, though. The house is dead, said Margaret with a frown. Why worry on about it? But I'm interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn't the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcox's own things. Interested are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it, on condition we— but by mistake all our things were unpacked—and a misavery, instead of— she stopped. Look here, I can't go on like this. I warn you, I won't. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me? Simply because you hate Henry. I don't hate him now, said Helen. I have stopped being a schoolgirl. And Meg, once again, I am not being unkind. Patas for fitting in with your English life. No. Put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Deucey Street. It's unthinkable. Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving forward with her plans—not bitter or excitable—neither asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom, and the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through—how much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends. Tell me about yourself, said Helen, who had chosen her books and was lingering over the furniture. There's nothing to tell. About your marriage has been happy, Meg. Yes, but I don't feel inclined to talk. You feel as I do? Not that, but I can't. No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying. Something had come between them. Perhaps it was society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived. Look here, Meg, is the coast clear? You mean that you want to go away from me? I suppose so. Dear old lady, it isn't any use. I knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Julie and Tibbie, and take more yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later. Certainly, dearest. For that is all we can do. It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen's common sense. Monica had been extraordinarily good for her. I am glad to have seen you and the things. She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past. Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked, The car has gone, and here's your cab. She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves in the sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The driver who was leaning on the gate called out, Please, lady, a message, and handed her Henry's visiting card through the bars. How did this come? she asked. Crane had returned with it almost at once. She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in domestic French. When she and her sister had talked, she was to come back for the night to Dali's. Il faut dormir sur ce sujet. While Helen was to be found, une confortable chambre à l'hôtel. The final sentence displeased her greatly, until she remembered that the Charles's had only one spare room, and so could not invite a third ghast. Henry would have done what he could, she interpreted. Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming. This is Mr. Wilcox's house, she inquired. Surely you remember Howard's end. Remember. I who remember everything. But it looks to be ours now. Miss Avery was extraordinary, said Margaret, her own spirit's lightning a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it. She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her house with our things than think of it empty. In consequence, here are all the library books. Not all the books. She hasn't unpacked the art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here. The sword looks well, though. Magnificent. Yes, doesn't it? Where's the piano, Meg? I warehoused that in London. Why? Nothing. Curious, too, that the carpet fits. The carpet's a mistake, announced Helen. I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful. You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There's no carpet there. They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. Oh, what a place for mother chiffonière! cried Helen. Look at the chairs, though! Oh, look at them! We can place faced north, didn't it? North-west. Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel! Their little backs are quite warm. But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just, over here, Meg, put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn. Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. Yes. The window's too high. Try a drawing-room chair. No, I don't like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise. Helen, what a memory you have for some things. You're perfectly right. It's a room that men have spoiled through trying to make it nice for women. Men don't know what we want. And never will. I don't agree. In two thousand years they'll know. But the chairs show up wonderfully. Look where Tibbie spilt the soup! Coffee. It was coffee, surely? Helen shook her head. Impossible! Tibbie was far too young to be given coffee at that time. Was Father alive? Yes. Then you're right, and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later, that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Julie's, when she didn't realise that Tibbie had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme— tea, coffee, coffee, tea—that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute, how did it go? I know. No, I don't. What a detestable boy, Tibbie was. But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could have put up with it. Ah! that green-gauge tree! cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. Why do I connect it with dumbbells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow hammers. Margaret interrupted her. I have got it! she announced. Tea, tea, coffee, tea, or chocolate, tea—that every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibbie was wild. Tibbie is moderately a dear now, said Helen. There, I knew you'd say that in the end. Of course he's a dear. A bell-ring. Listen, what's that? Helen said. Perhaps the Wilcox's are beginning the siege. What nonsense! Listen! And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind—the knowledge that they could never be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed. They had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them, the past sanctifying the present, the present with wild heartthrob, declaring that there would after all be a future, with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, It is always Meg. They looked into each other's eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper told. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen and struggled between packing cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. Little boy, what do you want? Please, I am the milk. Did the safari send you? said Margaret, rather sharply. Yes, please. Then take it back, and say we require no milk. While she called to Helen. No, it's not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one. But I like milk! cried Helen. Why send it away? Do you? Oh, very well. But we have nothing to put it in, and he wants the can. Please, I am to call in the morning for the can, said the boy. The house will be locked up, then. In the morning would I bring eggs, too? Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week? The child hung his head. Well, run away, and do it again. Nice little boy! whispered Helen. I say, what's your name? Mine's Helen. Tom. That was Helen all over. The Wilcox's, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we've another called Tibi. Mine a lot beard! replied Tom, supposing Tibi to be a rabbit. You are a very good and rather clever little boy. Mind you come again. Isn't he charming? Undoubtedly, said Margaret, he is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers. What do you mean? I don't know, because I probably agree with you. It kills what is dreadful, and makes what is beautiful live. I do agree, said Helen, as she sipped the milk. But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago. Meaning that I was dead. I felt it. Yes, the house has a sureer life than we, even if it was empty. And as it is, I can't get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, we can place was a grave. Meg, I have a startling idea. What is it? Drink some milk to study you. Margaret obeyed. No, I won't tell you yet, said Helen, because you may laugh or be angry. Let's go upstairs first, and give the rooms an airing. They opened window after window, till the inside too was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed, obviously, in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with misavery for not having moved the wardrobes up. Then one would see, really. She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they lent out looking westward, she said, About my idea. Couldn't you and I camp out in this house for the night? I don't think we could well do that, said Margaret. Here are beds, tables, towels. I know, but the house isn't supposed to be slept in, and Henry's suggestion was, I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg, lovely do-lets! But Helen, my pet, said Margaret, we can't without getting Henry's leave. Of course he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn't visit a Ducey Street now, and this is equally intimate. Ducey Street is his house, this is ours, our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It's a moon! Margaret hesitated. I feel Charles wouldn't like it, she said at last. Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out, when Aunt Julie's illness prevented me. I sympathized with Charles. He feels it's his mother's house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for—not Charles. I know he won't like it, said Helen, but I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run, if they say, and she even spent the night at Howard's End? How do you know you'll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before. Because my plans—which you change in a moment. Then, because my life is great, and theirs are little, said Helen, taking fire, I know of things they can't know of, and so do you. We know that there's poetry, we know that there's death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know that this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys. But for this one night we are at home. It would be lovely to have you once more alone. said Margaret. It may be a chance in a thousand. Yes, and we could talk. She dropped her voice. It won't be a very glorious story. But under that wood-shell, honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you? I needn't say how much it would mean to me. Then let us! It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave? Oh, we don't want leave. But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry, perhaps on account of them, she could sympathize with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night's lodging, and they demanded no more, need not involve the discussion of general principles. Charles may say no, grumbled Helen. We shan't consult him. Go, if you like. I should have stopped without leave. It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen's character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave, and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing. Not a thing. Only an ending, said Helen rather sadly, and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of the savoury. It is disquieting to fulfill a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. End of CHAPTER XXXVIII. 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 her to wheel baby's perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. But the didims 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 subject we'd both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your burnered shores, 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. Our Margaret's senses foresuck 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 the two feels 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 Howard's 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 should not 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 were not fit for it. I wish I had not taken you. Margaret answered, I like to stand, if you do not 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 a no-brother. That, too, was unnecessary. Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You do not 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 hid out for the first time. Are we to make a 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. Tomorrow Helen goes to Munich. Well, possibly she is right. Henry, let a lady finish. Tomorrow she goes. Tonight, with your permission, she would like to sleep at Howard's 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 Howard's 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 lived becomes, in a sort of way, sacred. I don't know why. Associations and so on. Now, Helen has no associations with Howard's 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 realize 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 Howard's 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 is 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 Howard's 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. Tonight 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 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 have, or gave 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, man, are you. You can't recognize them, because you cannot connect. I've had enough of your unweeded kindness. I've spoiled you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told you 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 our 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. End of chapter thirty-eight. Chapter thirty-nine of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Howard's End. By E. M. Forster. Chapter thirty-nine. Charles and Tibi met at Deucey Street, where the ladder was staying. Their interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the English language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out as the most dangerous of the Schlagels, and angry as he was, looked forward to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was made up at once. The girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered, she might be married to a villain, or possibly to a foal. But this was a concession to morality. It formed no part of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles's dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly before him. Hatred is a skillful compositor. As if they were heads in a notebook, he ran through all the incidents of the Schlagels' campaign, the attempt to compromise his brother, his mother's legacy, his father's marriage, the introduction of the furniture, the unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard of the request to sleep at Howard's End. That was to be their master's stroke and the opportunity for his. But he already felt that Howard's End was the objective, and, though he disliked the house, was determined to defend it. Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood above the conventions. His sister had a right to do what she thought right. It is not difficult to stand above the conventions when we leave no hostages among them. Men can always be more unconventional than women, and a bachelor of independent means need encounter no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money enough. His ancestors had earned it for him. And if he shocked the people in one set of lodgings, he had only to move into another. His was the leisure without sympathy, an attitude as fatal as the strenuous, a little cold culture may be raised on it, but no art. His sisters had seen the family danger, and had never forgotten to discount the gold islets that raised them from the sea. Tibby gave all the praise to himself, and so despised the struggling and the submerged. Hence the absurdity of the interview, the gulf between them was economic as well as spiritual. But several facts passed. Charles pressed for them with an impertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand. On what date had Helen gone abroad? To whom? Charles was anxious to fasten the scandal on Germany. Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly, I suppose you realize that you are your sister's protector, in what sense? If a man played about with my sister, I'd send a bullet through him. But perhaps you don't mind? I mind very much, protested Tibby. Who do you suspect, then? Speak out, man! One always suspects someone. No one? I don't think so. Involuntarily he blushed. He had remembered the scene in his Oxford rooms. You are hiding something, said Charles. As interviews go, he got the best of this one. When you saw her last, did she mention any one's name? Yes or no? He thundered, so that Tibby started. In my room she mentioned some friends called the Basts. Who are the Basts? People—friends of hers at Evie's wedding. I don't remember. But by great scot, I do. My aunt told me about some tag-rag. Was she full of them when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she speak of the man? Or, look here, have you had any dealings with him? Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had betrayed his sister's confidence. He was not enough interested in human life to see where things will lead to. He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply vexed—not only for the harm he had done Helen, but for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment. I see. You are in his confidence. They met at your rooms. Oh, what a family! What a family! God help the poor Peter! And Tibby found himself alone. E. M. Forster Chapter 40 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, desired 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 even yet not 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, who 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 sureer its pronouncements on this point, the sureer may we be that morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they questioned him. It is those that cannot connect, who hastened to cast the first stone. This was Helen's evening, one 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 Lennon to 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 they 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 vasts. 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 Lennon. 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 a 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 Paul Leonard. I am steady now. I shall never like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even speak kindly about him, but all that blinding hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcox's 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 tomorrow 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 vanished from his mind. Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get on with your moniker? 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 nestled 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 in shadowed the tree at first, but as the moon rose higher the two disentangled, and were clear for 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?