HOWARDS END
Chapter 43
Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt Juley's illness and
was not even to end with Leonard's death, it seemed impossible to Margaret that
healthy life should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical, yet
senseless, train. People lost their humanity, and took values as arbitrary
as those in a pack of playing-cards. It was natural that Henry should do
this and cause Helen to do that, and then think her wrong for doing it; natural
that she herself should think him wrong; natural that Leonard should want to
know how Helen was, and come, and Charles be angry with him for coming--natural,
but unreal. In this jangle of causes and effects what had become of their
true selves? Here Leonard lay dead in the garden, from natural causes; yet
life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky, life was a house, death a wisp of
hay, a flower, a tower, life and death were anything and everything, except this
ordered insanity, where the king takes the queen, and the ace the king.
Ah, no; there was beauty and adventure behind, such as the man at her feet had
yearned for; there was hope this side of the grave; there were truer
relationships beyond the limits that fetter us now. As a prisoner looks up
and sees stars beckoning, so she, from the turmoil and horror of those days,
caught glimpses of the diviner wheels.
And Helen,
dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm for the child's sake, and Miss Avery,
calm, but murmuring tenderly, "No one ever told the lad he'll have a
child"--they also reminded her that horror is not the end. To what
ultimate harmony we tend she did not know, but there seemed great chance that a
child would be born into the world, to take the great chances of beauty and
adventure that the world offers. She moved through the sunlit garden,
gathering narcissi, crimson-eyed and white. There was nothing else to be
done; the time for telegrams and anger was over, and it seemed wisest that the
hands of Leonard should be folded on his breast and be filled with
flowers. Here was the father; leave it at that. Let Squalor be
turned into Tragedy, whose eyes are the stars, and whose hands hold the sunset
and the dawn.
And even the influx of officials, even
the return of the doctor, vulgar and acute, could not shake her belief in the
eternity of beauty. Science explained people, but could not understand
them. After long centuries among the bones and muscles it might be
advancing to knowledge of the nerves, but this would never give
understanding. One could open the heart to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort
without discovering its secrets to them, for they wanted everything down in
black and white, and black and white was exactly what they were left
with.
They questioned her closely about
Charles. She never suspected why. Death had come, and the doctor
agreed that it was due to heart disease. They asked to see her father's
sword. She explained that Charles's anger was natural, but mistaken.
Miserable questions about Leonard followed, all of which she answered
unfalteringly. Then back to Charles again. "No doubt Mr. Wilcox may
have induced death," she said; "but if it wasn't one thing it would have been
another, as you yourselves know." At last they thanked her, and took the sword
and the body down to Hilton. She began to pick up the books from the
floor.
Helen had gone to the farm. It was the
best place for her, since she had to wait for the inquest. Though, as if
things were not hard enough, Madge and her husband had raised trouble; they did
not see why they should receive the offscourings of Howards End. And, of
course, they were right. The whole world was going to be right, and amply
avenge any brave talk against the conventions. "Nothing matters," the
Schlegels had said in the past, "except one's self-respect and that of one's
friends." When the time came, other things mattered terribly. However,
Madge had yielded, and Helen was assured of peace for one day and night, and
tomorrow she would return to Germany.
As for herself,
she determined to go too. No message came from Henry; perhaps he expected
her to apologize. Now that she had time to think over her own tragedy, she
was unrepentant. She neither forgave him for his behaviour nor wished to
forgive him. Her speech to him seemed perfect. She would not have
altered a word. It had to be uttered once in a life, to adjust the
lopsidedness of the world. It was spoken not only to her husband, but to
thousands of men like him--a protest against the inner darkness in high places
that comes with a commercial age. Though he would build up his life
without hers, she could not apologize. He had refused to connect, on the
clearest issue that can be laid before a man, and their love must take the
consequences.
No, there was nothing more to be
done. They had tried not to go over the precipice but perhaps the fall was
inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the future was certainly
inevitable: cause and effect would go jangling forward to some goal doubtless,
but to none that she could imagine. At such moments the soul retires
within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion with the
dead, and sees the world's glory not diminished, but different in kind to what
she has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial things are
blurred. Margaret had been tending this way all the winter.
Leonard's death brought her to the goal. Alas! that Henry should
fade, away as reality emerged, and only her love for him should remain clear,
stamped with his image like the cameos we rescue out of
dreams.
With unfaltering eye she traced his
future. He would soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and what
did he or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He would grow into
a rich, jolly old man, at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying
his glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the
rest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced
age. He would settle down--though she could not realize this. In her
eyes Henry was always moving and causing others to move, until the ends of the
earth met. But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle
down. What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul
to its appropriate Heaven.
Would they meet in
it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An eternal future
had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for
himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless
levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And
his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as
hers?
Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned
by him. He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed like
water, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent and disloyal.
Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it.
"Is it the
keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked.
"He didn't
say, madam."
"You haven't any note for
me?"
"He didn't say,
madam."
After a moment's thought she locked up
Howards End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that
would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was blazing in the
kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the
windows and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place
now.
She was determined not to spare him, for nothing
new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have
altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles's
gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said
hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you
outside."
"It will be more appropriate in the road, I
am afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my
message?"
"What about?"
"I
am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make
it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have
realized. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving
you."
"I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured
tones. "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit
down."
"Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the
grass."
The Great North Road should have been
bordered all its length with glebe. Henry's kind had filched most of
it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills.
They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or
Dolly.
"Here are your keys," said Margaret. She
tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he
did not pick them up.
"I have something to tell you,"
he said gently.
She knew this superficial gentleness,
this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration
of the male.
"I don't want to hear it," she
replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with
her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her
child."
"Where are you
going?"
"Munich. We start after the inquest, if
she is not too ill."
"After the
inquest?"
"Yes."
"Have you
realized what the verdict at the inquest will
be?"
"Yes, heart
disease."
"No, my dear;
manslaughter."
Margaret drove her fingers through the
grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it was
alive.
"Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox.
"Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don't know what to
do--what to do. I'm broken--I'm
ended. "
No sudden warmth arose in her.
She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold
the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life
began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for
trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law,
being made in his image, sentenced him to three years' imprisonment. Then
Henry's fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife, he shambled
up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She
did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End.