HOWARDS END
Chapter 38
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 diddums 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 subjects we'd both prefer to
leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws 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."
All Margaret's
senses forsook 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 that you feel as 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
Howards 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 shouldn't 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 weren't fit for it. I wish I hadn't
taken you."
Margaret answered, "I like to stand, if
you don't 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
on your brother."
"That too was
unnecessary."
"Let me explain, dear, how the matter
stands. You don't 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 hit out for the first
time. "Are we to make her 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 Howards
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 Howards 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
once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don't know why. Associations
and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards 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 Howards End for
this one night. I take her to London
tomorrow--"
"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 has 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 Howards 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 forgave 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 spoilt you long enough. All your life
you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told
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 Howards 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.