 26 Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised well and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret watched it. Finally she saw the keep and the sun painted the rubble gold and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself together and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and only visible as far as a hill which cut off its upper reaches. Margaret was fascinated by Huntington. She had said that she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded druids of whom she'd caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them to England, the carelessly mottled masses of the lower hills thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but the prospect from it would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends that she would have to stop in it and of the conversion of Henry himself to a rural life. Society too promised favorably. The rector of the parish had dined with them last night and she had found that he was a friend of her father's and so knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would introduce her to the town. While on the other side Sir James Bitter sat, repeating that she had only to give the word and he would whip up the country families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was garden seeds, had promised what he could perform she'd doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the country families when they did call, she was content. Charles and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-dresses. She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but she saw that the day was still sacred to men and amused herself by watching their contre-tente. In the first place the key of the bathing shed could not be found. Charles stood by the river-side with folded hands, tragical, while the servant shouted and was misunderstood by another servant in the garden. Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow with orders and counter-orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped. If Tibi thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled. If a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralyzed. They could not bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. And they found the life of the body, after all. Could not the men whom they despised as milk-sobs beat them even on their own ground? She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day. No worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, Good morning, dear, a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed and was seen no more. Miss Wilcox is up. The child whispered, and then became unintelligible. What's that? It sounded like, Coyote, sack back. I can't hear, on the bed, tissue paper. Gathering that the wedding dress was on view and a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie's room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped, Dolly, is a rod or not to be here? Oh, we would rage us then! Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Evie was already installed. He ate slowly, and spoke little, and was in Margaret's eyes the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent to either the loss of his daughter or the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally, orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand. He set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment's awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. Burton, called Henry, served tea and coffee from the sideboard. It wasn't genuine tact, but it was tact of a sort, the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and death wears thy sting, love wears thy victory, one would exclaim at the close. After breakfast, she claimed a few words with him. It was always best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview because he was going on to shoot Grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen in town. "'Certainly, dear,' he said, "'of course I have the time. What do you want?' "'Nothing.' I was afraid something had gone wrong. "'No, I have nothing to say, but you may talk.' Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the litch-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would set his soul in order. Such a moment is this, when they sat under fair weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the clean shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the monk and the beast at a single blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond. "'If there is this nasty curve,' she suggested, couldn't we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie. But the rest of us might very well go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages. One can't have ladies walking through the market square. The fussles wouldn't like it. They were awfully particular at Charles's wedding. My—she—one of our party—was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was just round the corner, and I shouldn't have minded, but the Colonel made a great point of it. "'You men shouldn't be so chivalrous,' said Margaret thoughtfully. Why not?' She knew why not, but said that she didn't know. He announced that, unless she had anything special to say, he must visit the wine cellar, and they went off together in search of Burton. Though clumsy and a little inconvenient, Unninton was a genuine country house. They clattered down flagged passages, looking into room after room in scary, unknown maids from the performance of obscure duties. The wedding breakfast must be in readiness when they came back from church, and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so many agitated and serious people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that they were paid to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie into nuptial glory. A little boy blocked their way with pigtails. His mind could not grasp their greatness, and he said, By your leave, let me pass, please. Henry asked him where Burton was, but the servants were so new that they did not know one another's names. In the still-room sat the band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of their fee, and who were already drinking beer. This of Evie came from the kitchen, mingled with cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it happened at Wickham Place. One of the wedding-dishes had boiled over, and the cook was throwing cedar shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon the butler. Henry gave him the keys and handed Margaret down the cellar stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at the bottom of the linen cupboard, was astonished at the sight. We shall never get through it! She cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had again jumped out of the car while it was moving. Certainly Unninton would take some digesting, who would be no small business to remain herself and yet to assimilate such an establishment. She must remain herself, for his sake, as well as her own, since a shadowy wife degrades the husband to whom she accompanies, and she must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of home. The loss of Wicomplace had taught her more than its possession. Howard's End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to create new sanctities among these hills. After visiting the wine cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it. Everything went like one o'clock. Mr. Cahill materialized out of space, and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses or trod on Evie's train or cried. In a few minutes, the clergyman performed their duty, the register was signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by the litch gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time on other business. There were more documents to sign at the house and the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great many refusals. After all, it was not a very big affair, not as big as Margaret's would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of red carpet that outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she helped for something better than this blend of Sunday church and fox hunting, if only someone had been upset. But this wedding had gone off so particularly well. Quite like a derber, in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her. So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in the castle meadow, and in tones of unusual softness said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed. Certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of cow-towing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening, only the Warringtons and the quiet child would stay the night. The others were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. "'I think it did go off well,' she agreed. "'Since I had to jump out of the motor, I am thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear. I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember we have no practical person among us except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale.' "'I know,' he said gravely. "'Under the circumstances. It would be better to put everything into the hands of herrards or whitelies or even to go to some hotel.' "'You desire a hotel?' "'Yes, because, well, I mustn't interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home. My old home is falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn't it a perfect evening? The Alexandrina isn't bad.' "'The Alexandrina,' she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke they were issuing from their chimneys and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of gray. "'It's off Curson Street. Is it? Let's be married from off Curson Street.' Then she turned westward to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill, the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles Bailing shed. She gazed so long her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back into the house, she could not recognize the faces of the people who were coming out of it. A parlor maid was preceding them. "'Who are those people?' she asked. "'They're callers,' exclaimed Henry. "'It's too late for callers.' "'Perhaps they're town people who wanted to see the wedding presents. I'm not at home yet to townies.' "'Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can, stop them, I will.' He thanked her. Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were unpunctual guests who would have to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. She assumed the heir of a hostess. But not for long, for one of the group was Helen, Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excitement that had made her ate terror in their nursery days. "'What is it?' she called. "'Oh, what's wrong? Is tibia?' Helen spoke to her two companions who fell back. Then she bore furiously forward. "'They're starving,' she shouted. I found them starving. "'Who? Why have you come?' "'The Bast.' "'Oh, Helen,' moaned Margaret. "'Whatever have you done now?' "'He's lost his place. He's been turned out of the bank. Yes, he's done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you'll tell me that it's the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving.' She fainted in the train. "'Helen, are you mad?' "'Perhaps. Yes, if you like, I'm mad, but I've brought them. I'll stand in justice no longer. I'll show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what we're all too slack to do ourselves.' "'Have you actually brought two starving people from London to rupture, Helen?' Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated. "'There was a restaurant car on the train,' she said. "'Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you know it. Now begin from the beginning. I won't have such theatrical nonsense.' "'How dare you?' "'Yes, how dare you?' She repeated, as anger filled her, bursting into Evie's wedding in this heartless way. My goodness, but you have a perverted notion of philanthropy. "'Look,' she indicated the house. "'Servants, people out the windows, they think it's some sort of vulgar scandal, and I must explain. Oh no, it's only my sister screaming and two hangers on of ours, who she's brought here for no conceivable reason.' "'Kindly take back that word, hangers on,' said Helen, ominously calm. "'Very well,' conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "'I too, I'm sorry about them, but it beats me why you've brought them here or why you're here yourself. "'It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox.' Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry, Henry. He's going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him. Yes, tomorrow. I knew it was our last chance.' "'How do you do, Mr. Bast?' said Margaret, trying to control her voice. This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?' "'There is Mrs. Bast, too,' prompted Helen. Jackie also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy and furthermore ill and furthermore so beastly stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and breakfast and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested and when morning came had suggested that they did not go. But she, hath mesmerized, obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting room had accordingly changed into Paddington and Paddington into a railway carriage that shook and grew hot and grew cold and vanished entirely and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "'You fainted,' said the lady in an awestruck voice. Perhaps the air will do you good and perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "'I'm sure I don't want to intrude,' began Leonard in answer to Margaret's question. But you've been so kind to me in the past and warning me about the Porphyrian that I wondered why I wondered whether... Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrian again,' supplied Helen. "'Meg, this has been a cheerful business, a bright evening's work that was on the Chelsea embankment.' Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bass. "'I don't understand. You left the Porphyrian because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn't you?' "'That's right.' And went into a bank instead. "'I told you all that,' said Helen, and they reduced their staff after he'd been there a month, and now he's penniless, and I consider that we, in our informant, are directly to blame.' "'I hate all this,' Leonard muttered. "'I hope you do, Mr. Bass, but it's no good mincing matters. You've done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox and to call him to account for a chance to remark, you'll make a very great mistake. "'I brought them. I did it all,' cried Helen. "'I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position and it is kindest to tell you so. It's too late to get to town, but you'll find a comfortable hotel where Mrs. Bass can rest, and I hope you'll be my guests there.' "'That isn't what I want, Miss Schlegel,' said Leonard. "'You're very kind, and no doubt it's a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all.' "'It's work, he wants,' interpreted Helen. "'Can't you see?' Then he said, "'Jackie, let's go. We're more bothered than we're worth. We're costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There's nothing we're good enough to do.' "'We would like to find you work,' said Margaret, rather conventionally. "'We want to. I, like my sister. You're only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night's rest, and someday you shall pay me back the bill if you prefer it.' But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "'You don't know what you're talking about,' he said. "'I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I've got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that's all. Poetry's nothing, Miss Schlegel. One's thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you'll understand me. I mean, if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it's all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It's no good. It's the whole world pulling. There will always be rich and poor,' he ceased. "'Won't you have something to eat?' said Margaret. "'I don't know what to do. It isn't my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would be glad to see you at any other time, as I say, I don't know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen offered them something to try us and, which, Mrs. Bast. They moved to a long table, behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, cleric cup, champagne remained almost intact. Their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jackie thought that she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together and had a few more words with Helen. She said, "'Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree he's worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible. No, indirectly, via Mr. Wilcox. Let me tell you, once and for all, that if you take up that attitude, I'll do nothing. No doubt you're right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only I won't have it. So choose,' Helen looked at the sunset. If you promise to take them quietly to the George, I will speak to Henry about them in my own way mind. There is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can't give him. But possibly Henry can. It's his duty too, crumbled Helen. Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with the characters of various people whom we know and how things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favors. All businessmen do, but I am going to ask him at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better. Very well, I promise. You take it very calmly. Take them off to the George, and I'll try. Poor creatures, but they look tired. As they parted, she added, I haven't nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can't get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over, and alter yourself, or we shan't have happy lives. She rejoined Henry. Fortunately, he had been sitting down. These physical matters were important. Was it Townies? He asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. He'll never believe me, said Margaret, sitting down beside him. It's all right now, but it was my sister. Helen here, he cried, preparing to rise, but she refused the invitation. I thought she despised weddings. Don't get up. She's not come to the wedding. I've bundled her off to the George. Inherently hospitable, he protested. No, she has two of her protégés with her and must keep with them. Let them all come. My dear Henry, did you see them? I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly. The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea green and salmon bunch? What, are they out bean-feasting? No, business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them. She was ashamed of her own diplomacy, in dealing with Wilcox how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship and to give him the kind of woman that he desired. Henry took the hint at once and said, why later on? Tell me now, no time like the present. Shall I? If it isn't a long story. Oh no, not five minutes, but there's a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office. What are his qualifications? I don't know, he's a cleric. How old? 25 perhaps? What's his name? Bast, said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. Where was he before? Dempster's Bank. Why did he leave? He asked, still remembering nothing. They reduced their staff. All right, I'll see him. It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plinlimin, when condemning sufferer Jets, had said, the woman who can't influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself. Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. I should be glad if you took him, she said, but I don't know whether he's qualified. I'll do what I can, but Margaret, this mustn't be taken as a precedent. No, of course, of course. I can't fit in your protégés every day. Business would suffer. I can promise you, he's the last. He's, he's rather a special case. Protégés always are. She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be. And she herself, hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for truth. Love and truth. Their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. Your protégé has made us late, he said. The fuzzles will just be starting. On the whole, she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Bastes as he had saved Howard's end while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world had been built of slap-dash. And the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Anita and myself was imperfect. Its apple trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Kelt between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more, the West was retreating. Once again, the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover's arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden. The husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt when shaking her hand an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her collet wick in place and smelled again the odors from the abyss, odors the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jackie. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, dealing no harm to anybody. She's overtired, Margaret whispered. If she's something else, said Henry, this won't do, I can't have her in my garden in this state. Is she, Margaret hesitated to add, drunk? Now that she was going to marry him, he'd grown particular, he discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff ball. Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel, he said sharply. Jackie replied, if it isn't Henry, ne crois pas qu'elle ne marie les ressembles. Apologize, Margaret, il est tout à fait différent. Henry, she repeated quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. I can't congratulate you on your protégés, he remarked. And don't go, you do love me, dear, don't you? Bless us, what a person, sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jackie pointed with her cake. You're a nice boy, you are. She yawned, there now I love you. Henry, I am awfully sorry. And pray why? He asked and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalized than the facts demanded. Who brought this down on you? Pray don't apologize. The voice continued. Why does she call you hen? Said Margaret innocently. Has she ever seen you before? Seen hen before? Said Jackie. Who hasn't seen hen? He's serving you like me, my dear. These boys, you wait. Still we love them. Are you now satisfied? Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. I don't know what this is all about. She said, let's come in. But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. Don't you indeed? He said, bitingly. I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan. This is Helen's plan, not mine. I now understand your interest in the best. Very well thought out. I'm amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right. It was necessary. I am a man. And I've lived a man's past. I have the honor to release you from your engagement. Still she could not understand. She knew of life's seamy side as a theory. She could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jackie were necessary. Words unequivocal. Undenied. So that burst from her and she went indoors. She stopped herself from saying more. So what? I asked Colonel Fessel, who was getting ready to start in the hall. We were saying—Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point of being—seizing his fur coat from a footman she offered to help him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene. No, let me do that, said Henry following. Thanks so much. You see, he's forgiven me. The Colonel said gallantly, I don't expect there's much to forgive. He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronizing their future hostess, the guests were home away. Then Margaret continued, So that woman has been your mistress. You put it with your usual delicacy, he replied. When, please? Why? When, please? Ten years ago. She left him without a word, for it was not her tragedy. It was Mrs. Wilcox's. Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of eight pounds in making some people ill and others angry. Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and had left her, Mr. Bast and Mrs. Bast, stranded for the night in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces had made the wave flow. At all events, no harm was done. Margaret would play the game properly now, and though Helen disapproved of her sister's methods, she knew that the Basts would benefit by them in the long run. Mr. Wilcox is so illogical, she explained to Leonard, who had put his wife to bed, and was sitting with her in the empty coffee room. If we told him it was his duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact is, he isn't properly educated. I don't want to set you against him, but you'll find him a trial. I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel, was all that Leonard felt equal to. I believe in personal responsibility, don't you, and in personal everything. I hate—I suppose I oughtn't to say that—but the Wilcox's are on the wrong tack, surely. Or perhaps it isn't their fault. Perhaps the little thing that says I is missing out of the middle of their heads, and then it's a waste of time to blame them. There's a nightmare of a theory that says a special race is being born, which will rule the rest of us in the future, just because it lacks the little thing that says I. Had you heard that? I get no time for reading. Had you thought it, then, that there are two kinds of people, our kind, who live straight from the middle of their heads, and the other kind, who can't, because their heads have no middle, they can't say I. They aren't, in fact, and so they're supermen. Pierpont Morgan has never said I in his life. Leonard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted intellectual conversation, she must have it. She was more important than his ruined past. I never got on to nature, he said, but I always understood that those supermen were rather like what you may call egoists. Oh, no, that's wrong, replied Helen. No superman ever said I want, because I want must lead to the question, who am I, and so to pity and to justice. He only says want. Want Europe, if he's Napoleon. Want wives, if he's Bluebeard. Want Botticelli, if he's Pierpont Morgan. Never the I, and if you could pierce through him, you'd find panic and emptiness in the middle. Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said, may I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both the sort that say I? Of course, and your sister too. Of course, repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was annoyed with Margaret, but did not want her disgust. All presentable people say I. But Mr. Wilcox, he is not perhaps. I don't know that it is any good discussing Mr. Wilcox either. Quite so, quite so, he agreed. Helen asked herself why she had snubbed him. Also twice during the day, she had encouraged him to criticise, and then had pulled him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming? If so, it was disgusting of her. But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Everything she did was natural and incapable of causing offence. While the Miss Schlegels were together, he had felt them scarcely human, a sort of admonitory whirligig, but a Miss Schlegel alone was different. She was, in Helen's case, unmarried, in Margaret's about to be married, in neither case an echo of her sister. A light had fallen at last into this rich upper world, and he saw that it was full of men and women, some of whom were more friendly to him than others. Helen had become his Miss Schlegel, who scolded him and corresponded with him, and has swept down yesterday with grateful vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, was severe and remote. He would not presume to help her, for instance. He had never liked her, and began to think that his original impression was true, and that her sister did not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely. She, who gave away so much, was receiving too little. Margaret was pleased to think that he could spare her vexation by holding his tongue and concealing what he knew about Mr Wilcox. Jackie had announced her discovery when he fetched her from the lawn. After the first shop he did not mind for himself, but now he had no illusions about his wife, and this was only one new stain on the face of a love that had never been pure. To keep perfection perfect, that should be his ideal. If the future gave him time to have ideals, Helen, and Margaret, for Helen's sake, must not know. Helen disconcerted him by fuming the conversation to his wife. Mrs Bast, does she ever say aye? She asked, half mischievously, and then, is she very tired? It's better she stops in her room, said Leonard. Will I sit up with her? No, thank you. She does not need company. Mr Bast, what kind of woman is your wife? Leonard blushed up to his eyes. You ought to know my ways by now. Does that question offend you? No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no. Because I love honesty. Don't pretend your marriage has been a happy one. You and she can have nothing in common. He did not deny it, but said shyly. I suppose that's pretty obvious, but Jackie never meant to do anybody any harm. When things went wrong, or I heard things, I used to think it was her fault, but looking back it's more mine. I needn't have married her, but as I have I must stick to her and keep her. How long have you been married? Nearly three years. What did your people say? They will not have anything to do with us. They had a sort of family council when they heard I was married, and cut us off altogether. Helen began to pace up and down the room. My good boy, what a mess, she said gently. Who are your people? He could answer this. His parents, who were dead, had been in trade. His sisters had married commercial travellers. His brother was a lay reader. And your grandparents? They had told her a secret that he had held shameful up to now. They were just nothing at all, he said. Agricultural labourers and that sort. So from which part? Lincolnshire mostly. But my mother's father, he, oddly enough, came from these parts round here. From this very Shropshire, yes, that is odd, my mother's people were Lancashire. But why do your brother and your sister's object amiss his best? Oh, I don't know. Excuse me, you do know, I am not a baby. I can bear anything you tell me, and the more you tell me, the more I shall be able to help. Have they heard anything against her? He was silent. I think I have guessed now, said Helen, very gravely. I don't think so, Miss Schlegel, I hope not. You must be honest, even over these things. I have guessed. I am frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does not make the least difference to me. I shall feel just the same to both of you. I blame not your wife for these things, but men. Leonard left it at that, so long as she did not guess the man. She stood at the window, and slowly pulled up the blinds. The hotel looked over a dark square. The mists had begun. When she turned back to him, her eyes were shining. Don't you worry, he pleaded. I can't bear that. We shall be all right if I get work. If I could only get work, something regular to do, then it wouldn't be so bad again. I don't trouble after books as I used. I can imagine that with regular work, we should settle down again. It stops one thinking. Settle down to what? Oh, just settle down. And that's to be life, said Helen, with a catch in her throat. How can you, with all the beautiful things to see and do, with music, with walking at night? Walking is well when a man's in work, he answered. Oh, I did talk a lot of nonsense once, but there's nothing like a bailiff in the house to drive it out of you. When I saw him fingering my Ruskins and Stevenson's, I seemed to see life straight real, and it isn't a pretty sight. My books are back again, thanks to you, but they'll never be the same to me again, and I shan't ever think night in the woods is wonderful. Why not, asked Helen, throwing up the window? Because I see one must have money. Well, you're wrong. I wish I was wrong, but the clergyman, he has money of his own, or else he's paid. The poet or the musician, just the same. The tramp, he's no different. The tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, and he's paid for with other people's money. Mish-legal, the real thing's money, and all the rest is a dream. You're still wrong, you've forgotten death. Leonard could not understand. If we lived forever, what you say would be true. But we have to die, we have to leave life presently. Injustice and greed would be the real thing if we lived forever. As it is, we must hold on to other things, because death is coming. I love death, not morbidly, but because he explains. He shows me the emptiness of money. Death and money are the eternal foes, not death and life. Never mind what lies behind death, Mr. Bast, but be sure that the poet and the musician and the tramp will be happier in it than the man who has never learnt to say, I am I. I wonder, we are all in a mist. I know, but I can help you this far. Men like the Wilcox's are deeper in the mist than any. Sane, sound Englishman, building up empires, levelling all the world into what they call common sense. But mention death to them and their offended, because death's really imperial, and he cries out against them forever. I'm as afraid of death as any one, but not of the idea of death. But what is the difference? Infinite difference, said Helen, more gravely than before. Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense of great things sweeping out of the shrouded night. But he could not receive them, because his heart was still full of little things. As the lost umbrella had spoiled the concert at Queen's Hall, so the lost situation was obscuring the divine harmonies now. Death, life, and materialism were fine words, but would Mr. Wilcox take him on as a clerk? Talk as one would, Mr. Wilcox was king of this world, the superman, with his own morality, whose head remained in the clouds. I must be stupid, he said apologetically. While to Helen the paradox became clearer and clearer, death destroys a man, the idea of death saves him. Behind the coffins and the skeletons, that stay the vulgar mind, lies something so immense, that all that is great in us responds to it. Men of the world may recoil from the charnel house, that they will one day enter, but love knows better. Death is his foe, but his peer, and in their age-long struggle, the fears of love have been strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is no one who can stand against him. So never give in, continued the girl, and restated again and again, the vague yet convincing plea, that the invisible lodges against the visible. Her excitement grew, as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard to the earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted her. Presently the waitress entered, and gave her a letter from Margaret. Another note, addressed to Leonard, was inside. They read them, listening to the murmurings of the river. CHAPTER XXVIII. For many hours Margaret did nothing, then she controlled herself and wrote some letters. She was too bruised to speak to Henry. She could pity him and even determine to marry him, but as yet I'll lay too deep in her heart for speech. On the surface the sense of his degradation was too strong. She could not command voice or look, and the gentle words that she forced out through her pen seemed to proceed from some other person. My dearest boy, she began, this is not to part us, it is everything or nothing, and I mean it to be nothing. It happened long before we ever met, and even if it had happened since, I should be writing the same, I hope. I do understand. But she crossed out. I do understand. It struck a false note. Henry could not bear to be understood. She also crossed out. It is everything or nothing. Henry would resent so strong a grasp of the situation. She must not comment, comment is unfeminine. I think that'll about do, she thought. Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was he worth all this bother? To have yielded to a woman of that sort was everything. Yes, it was, and she could not be his wife. She tried to translate his temptation into her own language and her brain reeled. Men must be different even to want to yield to such a temptation. Her belief in comradeship was stifled, and she saw life as from that glass saloon on the great western which sheltered male and female alike from the fresh air. Are the sexes really races, each with its own code of morality and their mutual love a mere device of nature to keep things going? Strip human intercourse of the properties, and it is reduced to this. Her judgment told her no. She knew that out of nature's device we have built a magic that will win us immortality. Far more mysterious than the call of sex to sex is the tenderness that we throw into that call. Far wider is the gulf between us and the farmyard than between the farmyard and the garbage that nourishes it. We are evolving in ways that science cannot measure. To ends that theology dares not contemplate. Men did produce one jewel, the gods will say, and saying will give us immortality. Margaret knew all this, but for the moment she could not feel it and transformed the marriage of Evian, Mr. Cahill, into a carnival of fools, and her own marriage too miserable to think of that she tore up the letter than wrote another. Dear Mr. Bast, I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I promised, and am sorry to say that he has no vacancy for you. Yours truly, M. J. Schlegel. She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she took less trouble than she might have done, but her head was aching and she could not stop to pick up her words. Dear Helen, give him this. The Bast are no good. Henry found the woman drunk on the lawn. I am having a room got ready for you here, and will you please come round at once on getting this? The Basts are not at all the type we should trouble about. I may go round to them myself in the morning and do anything that is fair. M. In writing this Margaret felt that she was being practical. Something might be arranged for the Basts later on, but they must be silenced for the moment. She hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman and Helen. She rang the bell for a servant, but no one answered it. Mr. Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone to bed, and the kitchen was abandoned to Saturnalia. Consequently she went over to the George herself. She did not enter the hotel, for discussion would have been perilous, and saying that the letter was important she gave it to the waitress. As she recrossed the square where she saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking out the window of the coffee room and feared she was already too late. Her task was not yet over. She ought to tell Henry what she had done. This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The night wind had been rattling the pictures against the wall, and the noise had disturbed him. "'Who's there?' he called, quite, the householder.' Margaret walked in and passed him. "'I have asked Helen to sleep,' she said. "'She's best here, so don't lock the front door.' "'I thought someone had got in,' said Henry. "'At the same time I told the man that we could do nothing for him. I don't know about later, but now the Basts must clearly go.' "'Did you say that your sister is sleeping here after all?' "'Probably.' "'Is she to be shown up in your room?' "'I have naturally nothing to say to her. I'm going to bed. Will you tell the servants about Helen? Could someone go to carry her bag?' He tapped a little gong which had been brought to summon the servants. "'You must make more noise than that if you want them to hear.' Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came shots of laughter. "'Pour too much screaming there,' he said, and strode toward it. Margaret went upstairs, uncertain whether to be glad that they had met or sorry. They had behaved as if nothing had happened, and her deepest instincts told her that this was wrong. For his own sake some explanation was due. And yet what could an explanation tell her? A date, a place, a few details, which she could imagine all too clearly. Now that the first shock was over, she saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Blast. Henry's inner life had long laid open to her as intellectual confusion, his obtuse-ness to personal influence, his strong but furtive passions. Should she refuse him because his outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Perhaps that his honour had been done to her, but it was done long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. She told herself that Mrs. Wilcox's wrong was her own. But she was not a barren theorist. As she undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her desire for seeing all grew weak. Henry must have it, as he liked, for she loved him, and some day she would use her love to make him a better man. Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this crisis. Pity, if one may generalize, is at the bottom of woman. When men like us it is for our better qualities, and however tender their liking we dare not be unworthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature for good or for evil. Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven and made better by love. Nothing else mattered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in proportion now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blundering up and down their lives, had Mrs. Wilcox known of his trespass? An interesting question, but Margaret fell asleep. Tethered by affection and lulled, by the murmurs of the river that descended all the night from Wales, she felt herself at one with her future home, colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see for the second time, on a tin castle conquering the morning mists. Chapter 29 Henry Dear was her greeting. He had finished his breakfast and was beginning the times. His sister-in-law was packing. She knelt by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then putting her face where it had been, she looked up in his eyes. Henry Dear, look at me. No, I won't have you shirking, look at me. There. That's all. You're referring to last evening, he said huskily. I have released you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won't. No, I won't. A thousand times no. I'm not a bad lot, and must be left at that. Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lured past. It was not true repentance. Leave it where you will, boy. It's not going to trouble us. I know what I'm talking about, and it will make no difference. No difference, he inquired. No difference when you find out that I'm not the fellow you thought. He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight. They had read books that are suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though she had determined against one, there was a scene all the same. It was something imperative. I am unworthy of you, he began. Had I been worthy, I should not have released you from your engagement. I know what I'm talking about. I can't bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it. She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and rising to his feet went on. You, with your sheltered life and refined pursuits, and friends and books, you and your sister and women like you, I say how can you guess the temptations that lie round a man? It is difficult for us, said Margaret. But if we are worth marrying, we do guess. Cut off from decent society and family ties. What do you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated, no one near. I know by bitter experience, and yet you say it makes no difference. Not to me. He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes. Being the lost town, she turned out the spirit lamp that kept them warm. She was tender but grave. She knew that Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing out the gulf between the male and the female, and that she did not desire to hear him on this point. Did Helen come, she asked. He shook his head. But that won't do it all, at all. We don't want her gossiping with Mrs. Bast. Good God, no, he exclaimed, suddenly natural. Then he caught himself. Let them gossip my games up, though I thank you for your unselfishness, little as my thanks are worth. Didn't she send me a message or anything? I heard of none. Would you ring the bell, please? What to do? Why to inquire? He swaggered up to it tragically and sounded appeal. Margaret poured herself out some coffee. The butler came and said that Ms. Schlegel had slept at the George, so far as he had heard. Should you go round to the George? I'll go, thank you, said Margaret, and dismissed him. It's no good, said Henry. Those things leak out. You cannot stop a story once it has started. I have known cases of other men. I despised them once. I thought that I'm different. I shall never be tempted. Oh, Margaret. He came and sat down near her, improvising in motion. She could not bear to listen to him. We fellows come to grief once in our time. Will you believe that? There are moments when the strongest man, let him who standeth take heed lest he fall. That's true, isn't it? If you knew all, you would excuse me. I was far from good influences, far even from England. I was a very, very lonely and longed for a woman's voice. That's enough. I have told you too much already for you to forgive me now. Yes, that's enough, dear. I have, he lowered his voice, I have been through hell. Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he suffered tortures of remorse or had it been? There, that's over, now, for respectable life again. The latter, if she read him rightly. A man who's been through hell does not boast of his virility. He is humble and hides it if, indeed, it still exists. Only in legend does the sinner come forth penitent, but terrible to conquer pure woman by his resistless power. Henry was anxious to be terrible, but he had not got it in him. He was a good average Englishman who had slipped. The really culpable point, his faithfulness to Mrs. Wilcox, never seemed to strike him. She longed to mention Mrs. Wilcox. And bit by bit the story was told her. It was a very simple story. Ten years ago was the time. A garrison town in Cyprus the place. Now and then he asked her whether she could possibly forgive him, and she answered, I have already forgiven you, Henry. She chose her words carefully and so saved him from panic. She played the girl until he could rebuild his fortress and hide his soul from the world. When the butler came to clear away Henry was in a very different mood. Asked the fellow what he was in such a hurry for. Complained of the noise last night in the servants' hall. Margaret looked intently at the butler. He, as a handsome young man, was faintly attractive to her as a woman. An attraction so faint as, scarcely to be perceptible, yet the skies would have fallen in if she had mentioned it to Henry. On her return from the George the building operations were complete. And the old Henry fronted her competent, cynical and kind. He had made a clean breast, had been forgiven, and the great thing now was to forget his failure and to send it the way of other unsuccessful investments. Jackie rejoined Howard's End and Ducey Street and the Vermillion motorcar and the Argentine hard dollars and all the things that people for whom he had never had much use and had less now. Their memory hampered him. He could scarcely attend to Margaret who brought back disquieting news from the George. Helen and her clients had gone. Well, then let them go. The man and his wife, I mean. For the more we see of your sister, the better. But they have gone separately. Helen very early, the past, just before I arrived. They have left no message. They have answered neither of my notes. I don't like to think what it all means. What did you say in the notes? I told you last night. Oh, uh, yes. Dear, would you like one turn in the garden? Margaret took his arm. The beautiful weather soothed her. But the wheels of Edie's wedding were still at work tossing the guests outwards as deftly as they had drawn them in, and she could not be with him long. It had been arranged that they should motor to Shrewsbury once they would go north, and she back to London with the Warringtons. For a fraction of time she was happy, then her brain recommenced. I'm afraid there's been gossiping of some kind at the George. Helen would not have left unless she had heard something. I mismanaged that. It is wretched. I ought to have parted her from that woman at once. Margaret, Hicks claimed, losing her arm impressively. Yes, yes, Henry. I am far from a saint, in fact, the reverse. But you have taken me for better or for worse. Bygones must be bygones. You have promised to forgive me. Margaret, a promise is a promise. Never mention that woman again. Except for some practical reason never. Practical? You practical? Yes, I'm practical. She murmured, stooping over the mowing machine and playing with the grass which trickled through her fingers like sand. He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy. Not for the first time he was threatened with blackmail. He was rich and supposed to be moral. The bass knew that he was not and might find it profitable to hint as much. At all events you mustn't worry, he said. This is a man's business, he thought intently. On no account mention it to anybody. Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was really paving the way for a lie. If necessary he would deny that he had ever known Mrs. Bast and prosecute her reliable. Perhaps he never had known her. Here was Margaret who behaved as if she had not. There the house, round them more half a dozen gardeners, clearing up after his daughter's wedding, all was so solid in spruce that the past flew up out of sight like a spring blind, leaving only the last five minutes unrolled. Glancing at these he saw that the car would be round during the next five and plunged into action. Gongs were tapped, orders issued. Margaret was sent to dress in the housemaids to swoop up the long trickle of grass that she had left across the hall. As is man to the universe, so was the mind of Mr. Wilcox to the minds of some men. A concentrated light upon a tiny spot, a little ten minutes moving self-contained through its appointed years. No pagan he who lives for the now, and maybe wiser than all philosophers, he lived for the five minutes that have passed and the five to come. He had the business mind. How did he stand now, as his motor slipped out of the Onneton and breasted the great round hills? Margaret had heard a certain rumor, but was all right. She had forgiven him, God bless her, and he felt manlier for it. Charles and Evie had not heard it, and never must hear. No more must Paul. Over his children he felt great tenderness which he did not try to track to a cause. Mrs. Wilcox was too far back in his life. He did not connect her with the sudden aching love that he felt for Evie. Poor little Evie, he trusted that Cahill would make her a decent husband. And Margaret, how did she stand? She had several minor worries. Clearly her sister had heard something. She dreaded meeting her in town, and she was anxious about Leonard, for whom they were certainly responsible. Nor ought Mrs. Bass to starve. But the main situation had not altered. She still loved Henry. His actions, not his disposition, had disappointed her. And she could bear that. She loved her future home, standing up in the car, just where she had leapt from it two days before. She gazed back with deep emotion upon Oneton. Besides the grange and the castle keep, she could now pick out the church and the black and white gables of the George. There was the bridge, and the river nibbling its green peninsula. She could even see the bathing shed. But while she was looking for Charles's new springboard, the forehead of the hill rose up and hid the whole scene. She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows down into England. Day after day the sun retreats into the Welsh mountains and the tower chimes. See the conquering hero. But the Wilcoxes have no part in the place, nor in any place. It is not their names that recur in the parish register. It is not their ghosts that sigh among the alders at evening. They have swept into the valley and swept out of it, leaving a little dust and a little money behind. End Chapter 29 This is a LibraVox recording. Our LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Recording by Gemma Blythe. Hours end by Edward Morgan Forster, Chapter 30. Tibi was now approaching his last year at Oxford. He had moved out of college and was contemplating the universe. All such portions of it has concerned him from his comfortable lodgings in Longwall. He was not concerned with much. When a young man is untroubled by passions and sincerely indifferent to public opinion, his outlook is necessarily limited. Tibi neither wished to strengthen the position of the rich, nor to improve that of the poor, and so was well content to watch the elms nodding beyond the mildly embattled parapets of Magdalene. There are worse lives. Though selfish, he was never cruel, though affected in manner he never posed. Like Margaret, he disdained the heroic equipment. And it was only after many visits that men discovered Sledgel to possess a character and a brain. He had done well in mods, much to the surprise of those who attended lectures and took proper exercise, and was now glancing disdainfully at Chinese, in case he should someday consent to qualify as a student interpreter. To him, thus employed, Helen entered. A telegram had preceded her. He noticed in a distant way that his sister had altered. As a rule he found her too pronounced, and had never come across this look of appeal, pathetic yet dignified, the look of a sailor who has lost everything at sea. I have come from Onerton, she began. There has been a great deal of trouble there. Who's for lunch? said Tibi, picking up the claret, which was warming in the earth. Helen sat down submissively at the table. Why is it an early start? he asked, sunrise or something, when I could get away. So eyes and eyes, why? I don't know what's to be done, Tibi. I am very much upset at a piece of news that concerns Meg, and do not want to face her, and I am not going back to Wiccan place. I stopped here to tell you this. The landlady came in with the cutlets. Tibi put a marker on the leaves of his Chinese grandma, and helped them. Oxford, the Oxford of the vacation, dreamed and rustled outside, and indoors the little file was coated with gray where the sunshine touched it. Helen continued her odd story. Give Meg my love, and say that I want to be alone. I mean to go to Munich or else born. Such a message is easily given, said her brother. As regards Wiccan place and my share of the furniture, you and she are to do exactly as you like. My own feeling is that everything may just as well be sold. What does one want? With dusty economic books, which have made the world know better. Or with mothers, hideous chiffonures. I have also another commission for you. I want you to deliver a letter. She got up. I haven't written it yet. Why shouldn't I post it, though? She sat down again. My head is rather wretched. I hope that none of your friends are likely to come in. To be locked the door. His friends often found it in this condition. Then he asked whether anything had gone wrong at Evie's wedding. Not there, said Helen, and burst into tears. He had known her hysterical. It was one of her aspects with which he had no concern. And yet these tears touched him as something unusual. There were nearer the things that did concern him, such as music. He laid down his knife and looked at her curiously. Then, as she continued to sob, he went on with his lunch. The time came for the second course, and she was still crying. Apple Charlotte was to follow, which spoils by waiting. Do you mind Mrs. Marthlett coming in, he asked? Or shall I take it from her at the door? Could I bathe my eyes, Debbie? He took her to his bedroom and introduced the pudding in her absence. Having helped himself, he put it down to warm the earth. His hand stretched towards the grandma, and soon he was turning over the pages, raising his eyebrows gauntly. Perhaps at human nature, perhaps at Chinese. To him, thus employed, Helen returned. She had pulled herself together, but the grave appeal had not vanished from her eyes. Now for the explanation, she said, Why didn't I begin with it? I have found out something about Mr. Wilcox. He has behaved very wrongly indeed, and ruined two people's lives. It all came on me very suddenly last night. I am very much upset, and I do not know what to do. Mrs. Bast, oh, those people! Helen seemed silenced. Shall I lock the door again? No thanks, Tivicans. You're being very good to me. I want to tell you the story before I go abroad. You must do exactly what you like. Treat it as part of the furniture. Make not of it yet, I think, but I cannot face her and tell her that the man she is going to marry has misconducted himself. I don't even know whether she ought to be dulled, knowing as she does, that I dislike him. She will suspect me, and think that I want to ruin her match. I simply don't know what to make of such a thing. I trust your judgment. What would you do? I gather he has had a mistrust, said Tibi. Helen flushed with shame and anger, and ruined people's lives, and goes about saying that personal actions count for nothing, and there always will be rich and poor. He met her when he was trying to get rich out of Cyprus. I don't wish to make him worse than he is, and no doubt she was ready enough to meet him. But there it is. They met. He goes his way, and she goes hers. What do you suppose is the end of such women? He conceded that it was bad business. They end in two ways. Either they sink to the lunaticous islands, and the workhouses are full of them. And cause Mr. Wilcox write letters to the papers complaining of our national degeneracy. Or else they entrap a boy into marriage before it is too late. She, I can't blame her. But this isn't all she continued after a long pause, during which the landlady served them with coffee. I come now to the business that took us to Arneton. We went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox's advice, the man throws up a secure situation and takes an insecure one from which he is dismissed. There are certain excuses, but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to blame, as Meg herself admitted. It is only common justice that he should employ the man himself. But he meets the woman, and like the curl that he is, he refuses and tries to get rid of them. He makes Meg right. Two notes came from her late that evening. One for me, one for Leonard. Dismissing him with barely a reason. I couldn't understand. Then it comes out that Mrs. Bast had spoken to Mr. Wilcox on the lawn while we left her to get rooms, and was still speaking about him when Leonard came back to her. This Leonard knew all along. He thought it natural he should be ruined twice. Natural, could you have contained yourself? It is certainly a very bad business, said Tibi. His reply seemed to calm his sister. I was afraid that I saw it out of proportion, but you are right outside it, and you must know, in a day or two or perhaps a week, take whatever steps you think fit. I leave it in your hands. She concluded her charge. The facts as they touched Meg are all before you, she added, and Tibi's side felt it rather hard that, because of his open mind, he should be in panel to serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human beings, for which one must blame him. But he had had rather too much of them at work and place. Just as some people cease to attend when books are mentioned, so Tibi's attention wandered when personal relations came under discussion. ought Margaret to know what Helen knew the best to know? Similar questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he had learned to say that the importance of human beings has been vastly overrated by specialists. The ever-ground, with its faint width of the eighties, meant nothing. But he might have let it off now if his sister had not been ceaselessly beautiful. You see, Helen, have a cigarette. I don't see what I'm to do. Then there's nothing to be done. I dare say you are right. Let them marry. There remains the question of compensation. Do you want me to adjudicate that, too? Had you not better consult an expert? This part is in confidence, said Helen. It has nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her. The compensation. I do not see who is to pay it, if I don't, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. As soon as possible, I am placing it in your account, and when I am in Germany, you will pay it over for me. I shall never forget your kindness, Tippigan's, if you do this. What is the sum? Five thousand. Good God alive, said Tippie, and went crimson. Now what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one thing, to have raised one person from the abyss. Not these puny gifts of shillings and blankets making the gray more gray. No doubt people will think me extraordinary. I don't care. A damn what people think, cried he. He did do unusual manliness of diction. But it's half what you have. Not nearly half. She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. I have far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a hundred and fifty between two. It isn't enough. He could not recover. He was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty to live on. But it amazed him to think what Hickhawks people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations would not work, and he could only blurt out that the five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother for him personally. I didn't expect you to understand me. I. I understand. Nobody. But you'll do it. Apparently. I leave you two commissions then. The first concern is to Wilcox, and you ought to use your discretion. The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned to no one and carried out literally. You will send a hundred pounds on account tomorrow. He walked with her to the station, passing through the streets whose serried beauty never bewildered him and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised domes and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the gangly in a vulgarity around Carthage showed how evanescent was the phantom. I'll faint its claim to represent England. Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed nothing. The bass were in her brain, and she reached all the crisis in a meditative way, which might have made other men curious. She was seeing whether it would hold. He asked her once why she had taken the bass right into the heart of Evie's wedding. She stopped, like a frightened animal, and said, Does that seem to you so odd? Her eyes, the hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted him, until they were absorbed into the figure of St. Mary the Virgin, before whom he paused for a moment on the walk home. It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his duties. Margaret summoned him the next day. She was terrified at Ellen's flight, and he had to say that she had called in at Oxford. Then she said, Did she seem worried at any rumor about Henry? Helen said, Yes, I knew it was that she exclaimed. I'll write to her. Tibby was relieved. He then sent the cheque to the address that Ellen gave him, and stated that later on he was instructed to forward five thousand pounds. An answer came back, very civil and quiet in tone. Such an answer, as Tibby himself would have given. The cheque was returned. The legacy refused, the writer being in no need of money. Tibby forwarded this to Ellen, adding in the fullness of his art that Leonard Bous seemed somewhat a monumental person after all. Helen's reply was frantic. He was to take no notice. He was to go down at once and say that she commanded acceptance. He went. A scuff of books and china ornaments awaited them. The Bous had been evicted for not paying their rent, and had wandered. No one knew with her. Helen had begun bungling with her money by this time, and had even sold outer shares in the Nottingham and Derby Railway. For some weeks she did nothing. Then she reinvested, and owing to the good advice of her stockbrokers, became rather richer than she had been before. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gemma Blythe. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter 31 Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the generations of men, some with a tragic roar, some quietly, but to an afterlife in the city of ghosts, while from others, and thus was the death of Wiccan Place, the spirit slips before the body perishes. It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating the girls more than they knew, and causing either to accost unfamiliar regions. By September it was a corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the memories of thirty years of happiness. Through its round top doorway, past furniture, and pictures and books, until the last room was gutted, and the last van had rumbled away. It stood for a week, or two longer, open-eyed, as if astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell, Navy's Game, and spilt it back into the gray, with their muscles and their very good temper. They were not the worst of undertakers for a house which had always been human, and had not mistaken culture for an end. The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into herfischer, Mr. Wilcox having most kindly offered Howard's End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce had died abroad, an unsatisfactory affair, and as there seemed little guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, he cancelled the agreement, and resumed possession himself. Until he relet the house, the sledges were welcomed to stack their furniture in the garage and lower rooms. Margaret demote. But Tibby accepted the offer gladly. It saved him from coming to any decision about the future. The plate and the more valuable pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk of the things went country ways and were entrusted to the guardianship of Miss Avery. Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were married. They have weathered the storm and may reasonably expect peace. To have no illusions and yet to love, what stronger surety can a woman find? She had seen her husband's past as well as his heart. She knew her own art, with a thoroughness that commonplace people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs. Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They were married quietly, really quietly. For as the day approached, she refused to go through another honitum. Her brother gave her away. Her aunt, who was out of health, presided over a few colorless refreshments. The Wilcoxes were represented by Charles, who witnessed the marriage settlement and by Mr. Gahill. Paul did send a gablegram. In a few minutes and without the aid of music, the clergyman made the man and wife, and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts off married couples from the world. She, a monogamous, regretted the cessation of some of life's innocent odors. He, whose instincts were polygamous, felt morally braced by the change, unless liable to the temptations that had assailed him in the past. They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry knew of a reliable hotel there, and Margaret hoped for a meeting with her sister. In this she was disappointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over the brunette, and wrote an unsatisfactory burst guard from the shores of the Lake of Garda, saying that her plans were uncertain and had better be ignored. Evidently she disliked meeting Henry. Two months, or surely enough, took custom and outsider to a situation which a wife has accepted in two days. And Margaret had again to regret her sister's lack of self-control. In a long letter, she pointed out the need of charity in sexual matters. So little is known about them. It is hard enough for those who are personally touched to judge, then how futile must be the verdict of society. I don't say there is no standard, for that would destroy morality. Only that there can be no standard until our impulses are classified and better understood. Helen thanked her for her kind letter. Rather a curious reply. She moved south again and spoke of wintering in Naples. Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. Helen left him time to grow skin over his wound. There were still moments when it pained him. Had he only known that Margaret was awaiting him. Margaret was so lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive. He would have kept himself worthier of her. Incapable of grouping the past. He confused the episode of Jackie with another episode that had taken place in the days of his bachelor. The two made one crop of wild oats, for which he was heartily sorry. And he could not see that those oats are of a darker stock, which are rooted in another's dishonor. Unchastity and infidelity were as confused to him as to the Middle Ages. His only moral teacher. Ruth. Poor old Ruth did not enter into his calculations at all. For poor old Ruth had never found him out. His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her cleverness gave him no trouble. And indeed he liked to see her reading poetry or something about social questions. It distinguished her from the wives of other men. He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and was ready to do what he wished. Then they would argue so jollily. And once or twice, she had him in quite a tight corner. But as soon as he grew really serious, she gave in. Man is for war. Woman for the recreation of the warrior. But he does not dislike it if she makes a show of fight. She cannot win in a real battle, having no muscles, only nerves. Nerves make her jump out of a moving motor-car. Or refuse to be married fashionably. The warrior may well allow her to triumph on such occasions. They move not the imperishable length of things that touch his peace. Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the honeymoon. He told her, casually as was his habit, that Honiton Grange was let. She showed her annoyance, and asked, rather crossly, why she had not been consulted. I didn't want to bother you, he replied. Besides, I have only heard for a certain this morning. Where are we to live? said Margaret, trying to laugh. I love the place extraordinarily. Don't you believe in having a permanent home, Henry? He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is home life that distinguishes us from the foreigner. But he did not believe in a dump house. This is news. I never heard till this minute that Honiton was dumped. My dear girl, he flung out his hand. Have you eyes? Have you a skin? How could it be anything but a dump in such a situation? In the first place, the Grange is on clay. And built where the castle note must have been, then there's that distestable little river steaming all night like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls. Look up under the eaves. Ask so, James, or anyone. Those Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only possible place for our house in Shropshire is on a hill. But for my part I think the country is too far from London and the scenery nothing special. Margaret could not resist saying, Why did you go there then? I because he drew his head back and grew rather angry. Why have we come to the Tyrol if it comes to that? One might go on asking such questions indefinitely. One might, but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer. Out at game. And he believed it as soon as it was spoken. The truth is I took Arneton on account of Evie. Don't let it go any further. Certainly not. I shouldn't like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girl. She was so keen on it all, it wouldn't even wait to make proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up? Just like all of your sex? Well, no harm's done. She has had her country wedding. And I've got rid of my house to some fellows who are starting a preparatory school. Where shall we live then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere. I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk? Margaret was silent. Married had not saved her from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilization which is altering human nature so profoundly and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to love alone may love be equal to the task. It is now what, continued Henry, nearly October. Let us camp for the winter at Juicy Street and look out for something in the spring. If possible, something permanent. I can't be as young as I was, for these alterations don't suit me. But my dear, which would you rather have? Alterations or rheumatism. I see your point, said Margaret, getting up. If Onerton is really damp, it is impossible and must be inhabited by little boys. Only in the spring let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hour in this time. These endless moves must be bound for the furniture and are certainly expensive. What a practical little woman it is. What's it been reading? Theo, Theo, how much? Theosophy. So Juicy House was her first fate, a pleasant enough fate, the house being only a little larger than work and place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to the business and his sandwich, a relic this of some prehistoric craving, was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven when he was gone. There was the house to look after and the servants to humanize and several kettles of helens to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the bus. She was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry's wife, she preferred to help someone else. As with theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to miss new movements and to spend her spare time rereading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause laid deeper still. She had outgrown stimulants and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wettekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty if the mind itself is to become a creative power. Chapter 32 of Howard's End Chapter 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 ant. I mean he's 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 are 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 me 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? 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, restante. Somewhere in Barveria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you. No, don't bother. That's eight months. She has 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 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 Sabry 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 too light and 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. The 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 a certain you knew with it. I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Sabry? I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my brothers and are 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 presents to herself. Old maids are taken that way sometimes. Miss Sabry 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 you know she gave Evie a present last August? And Evie returned it. And then, oh, galoshes. You never read such a letter as Miss Evie wrote. But it was all 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 farm woman. Now can you? You accepted a present from Miss Sabry 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 anyone 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 Sabry trouble. But Miss Sabry 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 Honiton and so climbing to society. She's rather old for that, said Margaret pensively. May not she 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 toddler. 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'd 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 censored 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 and 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. Timmy 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.