CHAPTER XLIII

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 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

to-morrow she would return to Germany.

As for herself, she determined to go too. No message came from Henry;

perhaps he expected her to apologise. 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 apologise. 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 realise 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 realised. 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 realised 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 were 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, notwithstanding, 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.