CHAPTER XXXV

One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true

children have only one mood; they are all full of the rising and

dropping of winds, and the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out,

the green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods

overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures, seen and unseen, are

wandering by coppice and meadow. The morning that Margaret had spent

with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the

scales of a single balance. Time might never have moved, rain never

have fallen, and man alone, with his schemes and ailments, was troubling

Nature until he saw her through a veil of tears.

She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most

kind, and she knew of no other standard by which to judge him. She

must trust him absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his

obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest indications, and the

capture of Helen promised to be staged as deftly as the marriage of

Evie.

They went down in the morning as arranged, and he discovered that their

victim was actually in Hilton. On his arrival he called 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 some one 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 tiptoe

out to the car.

“Tell her I thought it best.”

“Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see.”

“Say anything you like. All right.”

The car started well, and with ordinary luck would have got away. But

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 in 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.