HOWARDS END
Chapter 35
One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children
have only one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and
the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of
the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue,
the same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow.
The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set
out to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance. Time might never
have moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his schemes and
ailments, was troubling Nature until he saw her through a veil of
tears.
She protested no more. Whether Henry was
right or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other standard by which to
judge him. She must trust him absolutely. As soon as he had taken up
a business, his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest
indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be staged as deftly as the
marriage of Evie.
They went down in the morning as
arranged, and he discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton. On
his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in the village, and had a few
minutes' serious conversation with the proprietors. What he said, Margaret
did not know--perhaps not the truth; but news arrived after lunch that a lady
had come by the London train, and had taken a fly to Howards
End.
"She was bound to drive," said Henry.
"There will be her books.
"I cannot make it out,"
said Margaret for the hundredth time.
"Finish your
coffee, dear. We must be off."
"Yes, Margaret,
you know you must take plenty," said Dolly.
Margaret
tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her eyes. Dolly stole glances at
her father-in-law which he did not answer. In the silence the motor came
round to the door.
"You're not fit for it," he said
anxiously. "Let me go alone. I know exactly what to
do."
"Oh yes, I am fit," said Margaret, uncovering
her face. "Only most frightfully worried. I cannot feel that Helen
is really alive. Her letters and telegrams seem to have come from someone
else. Her voice isn't in them. I don't believe your driver really
saw her at the station. I wish I'd never mentioned it. I know that
Charles is vexed. Yes, he is--" She seized Dolly's hand and kissed
it. "There, Dolly will forgive me. There. Now we'll be
off."
Henry had been looking at her closely. He
did not like this breakdown.
"Don't you want to tidy
yourself?" he asked.
"Have I
time?"
"Yes, plenty."
She
went to the lavatory by the front door, and as soon as the bolt slipped, Mr.
Wilcox said quietly:
"Dolly, I'm going without
her."
Dolly's eyes lit up with vulgar
excitement. She followed him on tip-toe out to the
car.
"Tell her I thought it
best."
"Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I
see."
"Say anything you like. All
right."
The car started well, and with ordinary luck
would have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing in the garden,
chose this moment to sit down in the middle of the path. Crane, in trying
to pass him, ran one wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly
screamed. Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and was in time
to jump on the footboard. She said not a single word: he was only treating
her as she had treated Helen, and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to
indicate what Helen would feel against them. She thought, "I deserve it: I
am punished for lowering my colours." And she accepted his apologies with a
calmness that astonished him.
"I still consider you
are not fit for it," he kept saying.
"Perhaps I was
not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly before me
now."
"I was meaning to act for the
best."
"Just lend me your scarf, will you? This
wind takes one's hair so."
"Certainly, dear
girl. Are you all right now?"
"Look! My
hands have stopped trembling."
"And have quite
forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab should already have arrived at
Howards End. (We're a little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to
send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn't want a scene
before servants. A certain gentleman"--he pointed at Crane's back--"won't
drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the
laurels. Have you still the keys of the
house?"
"Yes."
"Well, they
aren't wanted. Do you remember how the house
stands?"
"Yes."
"If we
don't find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our
object--"
Here they stopped to pick up the
doctor.
"I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge,
that our main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, as you
know, is my property, so it should seem quite natural for us to be there.
The trouble is evidently nervous--wouldn't you say so,
Margaret?"
The doctor, a very young man, began to ask
questions about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything congenital
or hereditary? Had anything occurred that was likely to alienate her from
her family?
"Nothing," answered Margaret,
wondering what would have happened if she had added: "Though she did resent my
husband's immorality."
"She always was highly
strung," pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as it shot past the
church. "A tendency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing
serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say normal--a very
charming girl."
Margaret's anger and terror increased
every moment. How dare these men label her sister! What horrors lay
ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the name of science!
The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her human rights, and it seemed to
Margaret that all Schlegels were threatened with her. "Were they
normal?" What a question to ask! And it is always those who know
nothing about human nature, who are bored by psychology and shocked by
physiology, who ask it. However piteous her sister's state, she knew that
she must be on her side. They would be mad together if the world chose to
consider them so.
It was now five minutes past
three. The car slowed down by the farm, in the yard of which Miss Avery
was standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had gone past. She
nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of it, at the end of the
lane. The car ran silently like a beast of prey. So unsuspicious was
Helen that she was sitting on the porch, with her back to the road. She
had come. Only her head and shoulders were visible. She sat framed
in the vine, and one of her hands played with the buds. The wind ruffled
her hair, the sun glorified it; she was as she had always
been.
Margaret was seated next to the door.
Before her husband could prevent her, she slipped out. She ran to the
garden gate, which was shut, passed through it, and deliberately pushed it in
his face. The noise alarmed Helen. Margaret saw her rise with an
unfamiliar movement, and, rushing into the porch, learnt the simple explanation
of all their fears--her sister was with child.
"Is
the truant all right?" called Henry.
She had time to
whisper: "Oh, my darling--" The keys of the house were in her hand. She
unlocked Howards End and thrust Helen into it. "Yes, all right," she said,
and stood with her back to the door.