prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The fatal day arrives, and we find Mr. Wilcox and Margaret in Hilton with Dolly. Margaret is anxious, and Mr. Wilcox wants to go spring on Helen without her. Margaret runs to the washroom to gather herself, and Mr. Wilcox sneaks out without her, telling Dolly to make an excuse. The car starts on its way, but Dolly and Charles's little boy accidentally sits in the middle of the driveway, causing the chauffeur to swerve off course. Dolly screams, and Margaret comes running out. Margaret confronts Henry about his attempt to cut her out of the plan, and he apologizes. The apology is accepted, and they embark again. The car stops to pick up the doctor, and Henry emphasizes how important it is not to scare Helen. The doctor and Henry discuss Helen's case dispassionately, and Margaret is infuriated by the way they're busily labeling her character, as though she's not even human. Margaret is determined to be on Helen's side, since it's obvious that nobody else is. Helen is innocently waiting on the porch at Howards End. Margaret runs out of the car before Henry can stop her, and rushes to her sister. She discovers immediately why Helen has been avoiding everyone - she's pregnant. In a rush, Margaret unlocks the door and pushes Helen into the house, then calls out to Mr. Wilcox that everything is OK.


prompt:
Chapter: "Margaret, you look upset!" said Henry.

Mansbridge had followed. Crane was at the gate, and the flyman had stood
up on the box. Margaret shook her head at them; she could not speak any
more. She remained clutching the keys, as if all their future depended
on them. Henry was asking more questions. She shook her head again. His
words had no sense. She heard him wonder why she had let Helen in. "You
might have given me a knock with the gate," was another of his remarks.
Presently she heard herself speaking. She, or someone for her, said, "Go
away." Henry came nearer. He repeated, "Margaret, you look upset again.
My dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with Helen?"

"Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all."

"Manage what?"

He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed if it had
not been for the doctor.

"Stop that at least," she said piteously; the doctor had turned back,
and was questioning the driver of Helen's cab. A new feeling came over
her; she was fighting for women against men. She did not care about
rights, but if men came into Howards End, it should be over her body.

"Come, this is an odd beginning," said her husband.

The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox--the
scandal was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth.

"I cannot help it," said Margaret. "Do wait. It's not my fault. Please
all four of you go away now."

Now the flyman was whispering to Crane.

"We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox," said the young doctor.
"Could you go in and persuade your sister to come out?"

"On what grounds?" said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the
eyes.

Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured something about a
nervous breakdown.

"I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You are not qualified
to attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge. If we require your services, we
will let you know."

"I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish," he retorted.

"You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not qualified to
attend my sister."

"Come, come, Margaret!" said Henry, never raising his eyes. "This is a
terrible business, an appalling business. It's doctor's orders. Open the
door."

"Forgive me, but I will not."

"I don't agree."

Margaret was silent.

"This business is as broad as it's long," contributed the doctor. "We
had better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need
you."

"Quite so," said Henry.

"I do not need you in the least," said Margaret.

The two men looked at each other anxiously.

"No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement."

"Margaret, Margaret!"

"Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?"

Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he
must stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support,
for there was trouble ahead.

"It all turns on affection now," said Margaret. "Affection. Don't you
see?" Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with
her finger. "Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much.
Mr. Mansbridge doesn't know her. That's all. And affection, when
reciprocated, gives rights. Put that down in your note-book, Mr.
Mansbridge. It's a useful formula."

Henry told her to be calm.

"You don't know what you want yourselves," said Margaret, folding her
arms. "For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make
it. You would trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it.
I'll stand here all the day sooner."

"Mansbridge," said Henry in a low voice, "perhaps not now."

The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went
back into the car.

"Now, Henry, you," she said gently. None of her bitterness had been
directed at him. "Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no
doubt. Forgive me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go."

He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in
a low voice to him.

"I shall soon find you down at Dolly's," she called, as the gate at last
clanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed,
turned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string
of farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for
there was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she
opened the door. "Oh, my darling!" she said. "My darling, forgive me."
Helen was standing in the hall.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Henry tries to interfere, since Margaret looks so upset, but she won't let him into the house. She openly disobeys him for the first time, and feels like this is a fight of women against men. The doctor then tries to intervene, saying that Helen might be having a nervous breakdown. Margaret turns away both of them, saying that she and Helen don't need them - her sister still has a long while before the baby's due. Margaret appeals to Henry, saying that it's all about love - she cares for Helen, and neither of them do. The men give in and depart; Henry is confused by all of this, and Margaret tells him she will meet him at Charles and Dolly's. Margaret goes back into the house, where she confronts Helen.


prompt:
Chapter: Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her
sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her,
said:

"Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have
found nearly everything that I want."

"I told you nothing that was true."

"It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?"

"Helen, you wouldn't think I'd invent that?"

"I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.
"But one loses faith in everything after this."

"We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven't behaved worthily."

Helen selected another book.

"I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have
thought of me?"

She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both
might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater
crime than any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence
that is the work of the devil.

"Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been
respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary,
but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life,
as I now have to do."

"Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me."

"I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can't go
through a great deal of--"--she left out the noun--"without planning one's
actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first
place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I
will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I
have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know
it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be
right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known."

"But why didn't you tell me, dearest?"

"Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait."

"I believe you would never have told me."

"Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."

Margaret glanced out of the window.

"By 'we' I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and
always wish to be alone."

"I have not heard of Monica."

"You wouldn't have. She's an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her
living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the
best person to see me through."

"You are very fond of her, then."

"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me."

Margaret guessed at Monica's type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named
it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And
Helen had turned to it in her need!

"You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a
measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be
spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven't
understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is
a shock to you. It isn't to me, who have been thinking over our futures
for many months, and they won't be changed by a slight contretemps, such
as this. I cannot live in England."

"Helen, you've not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN'T talk like
this to me if you had."

"Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed
wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that
all the books are down here?"

"Series of mistakes."

"And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked."

"All."

"Who lives here, then?"

"No one."

"I suppose you are letting it, though."

"The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about
it?"

"But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life.
I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn't the feel of a dead house.
The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the
Wilcoxes' own things."

"Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband
lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked,
and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can't go on
like this. I warn you I won't. Helen, why should you be so miserably
unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?"

"I don't hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl,
and, Meg, once again, I'm not being unkind. But as for fitting in with
your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit
from me at Ducie Street! It's unthinkable."

Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly
moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither
asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and
the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through--how
much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old
habits as well as old friends.

"Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was
lingering over the furniture.

"There's nothing to tell."

"But your marriage has been happy, Meg?"

"Yes, but I don't feel inclined to talk."

"You feel as I do."

"Not that, but I can't."

"No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying."

Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which
henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already
potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered
acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection
survived.

"Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?"

"You mean that you want to go away from me?"

"I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn't any use. I knew we should have
nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more
yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later."

"Certainly, dearest."

"For that is all we can do."

It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen's common sense; Monica had
been extraordinarily good for her.

"I am glad to have seen you and the things." She looked at the bookcase
lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past.

Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car has gone, and here's
your cab."

She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring
had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the
gate, called out, "Please, lady, a message," and handed her Henry's
visiting-card through the bars.

"How did this come?" she asked.

Crane had returned with it almost at once.

She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in
domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back
for the night to Dolly's. "Il faut dormir sur ce sujet." while Helen
was to be found une comfortable chambre a l'hotel. The final sentence
displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles's had only
one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest.

"Henry would have done what he could," she interpreted.

Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost
her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to
table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming.

"This IS Mr. Wilcox's house?" she inquired.

"Surely you remember Howards End?"

"Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now."

"Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her own spirits
lightening a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of
disloyalty. But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it. "She loved
Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her home with our things than
think of it empty. In consequence here are all the library books."

"Not all the books. She hasn't unpacked the Art books, in which she may
show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here."

"The sword looks well, though."

"Magnificent."

"Yes, doesn't it?"

"Where's the piano, Meg?"

"I warehoused that in London. Why?"

"Nothing."

"Curious, too, that the carpet fits."

"The carpet's a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in
London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful."

"You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come
into the dining-room before you start? There's no carpet there. They
went in, and each minute their talk became more natural.

"Oh, WHAT a place for mother's chiffonier!" cried Helen.

"Look at the chairs, though."

"Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn't it?"

"North-west."

"Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun.
Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm."

"But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--"

"Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn."

Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it.

"Ye--es. The window's too high."

"Try a drawing-room chair."

"No, I don't like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been
match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise."

"Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You're perfectly right.
It's a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for
women. Men don't know what we want--"

"And never will."

"I don't agree. In two thousand years they'll know. Look where Tibby
spilt the soup."

"Coffee. It was coffee surely."

Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given
coffee at that time."

"Was father alive?"

"Yes."

"Then you're right and it must have been soup. I thinking of much
later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley's, when she didn't realise
that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on
purpose. There was some rhyme, 'Tea, coffee--coffee tea,' that she said
to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?"

"I know--no, I don't. What a detestable boy Tibby was!"

"But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."

"Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part
of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come
the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers."

Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced.

       "'Tea, tea, coffee, tea,
         Or chocolaritee.'

"That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild."

"Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen.

"There! I knew you'd say that in the end. Of course he's a dear."

A bell rang.

"Listen! what's that?"

Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."

"What nonsense--listen!"

And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something
behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love
was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they
had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other
unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past
sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring
that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of
children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It
is always Meg." They looked into each other's eyes. The inner life had
paid.

Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to
the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their
visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned.

"Little boy, what do you want?"

"Please, I am the milk."

"Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply.

"Yes, please."

"Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to
Helen, "No, it's not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us
against one."

"But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?"

"Do you? Oh, very well. But we've nothing to put it in, and he wants the
can."

"Please, I'm to call in the morning for the can," said the boy.

"The house will be locked up then."

"In the morning would I bring eggs too?"

"Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?"

The child hung his head.

"Well, run away and do it again."

"Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what's your name? Mine's
Helen."

"Tom."

That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name,
but they never told their names in return.

"Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we've another called Tibby."

"Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit.

"You're a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come
again.--Isn't he charming?"

"Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and
Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know."

"Because I probably agree with you."

"It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live."

"I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the
house was dead not half an hour ago."

"Meaning that I was dead. I felt it."

"Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as
it is, I can't get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone
full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I've a
startling idea."

"What is it?"

"Drink some milk to steady you."

Margaret obeyed.

"No, I won't tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be
angry. Let's go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing."

They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling
to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen
uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right
place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not
having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired
the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four
years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my
idea. Couldn't you and I camp out in this house for the night?"

"I don't think we could well do that," said Margaret.

"Here are beds, tables, towels--"

"I know; but the house isn't supposed to be slept in, and Henry's
suggestion was--"

"I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But
it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It
will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let's!"

"But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can't without getting Henry's
leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you
couldn't visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate."

"Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of
people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom
shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It's a moon."

Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn't like it," she said at last.
"Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when
Aunt Juley's illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels
it's his mother's house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I
could answer for--not Charles."

"I know he won't like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of
their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say,
'And she even spent the night at Howards End'?"

"How do you know you'll pass out of their lives? We have thought that
twice before."

"Because my plans--"

"--which you change in a moment."

"Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen,
taking fire. "I know of things they can't know of, and so do you. We
know that there's poetry. We know that there's death. They can only take
them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh,
they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night
we are at home."

"It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may
be a chance in a thousand."

"Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won't be a
very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little
happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?"

"I needn't say how much it would mean to me."

"Then let us."

"It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get
leave?"

"Oh, we don't want leave."

But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and
poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the
technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be
technical, too. A night's lodging--and they demanded no more--need not
involve the discussion of general principles.

"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen.

"We shan't consult him."

"Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave."

It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen's
character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without
leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.

"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is
like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing."

"Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of
tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house.

She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy,
however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she
drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the
straw.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Margaret tries to kiss Helen, but her sister resists, basically accusing her of dishonestly tricking her into coming to Howards End. She is justifiably annoyed, and Margaret admits that she shouldn't have done it. Helen is businesslike, and describes her situation in full: the baby's due in June, and she is never going to return to England, since English people will never forgive her for her transgression. She intends to stay in Munich with Monica, a feminist Italian journalist that she's befriended. Margaret imagines what Monica's like - the kind of "crude feminist" that the Schlegels used to make fun of. Helen emphasizes the fact that she can't live in England anymore. The talk turns to Howards End - they comment on how alive it feels with all of their things unpacked. Margaret is distracted for a short while, but gets to the point - she wants to know why Helen can't just come back. Is it because she hates Henry? Helen admits that it's not Henry's fault, but society's. There's no way she, with her illegitimate child, can fit into English society again. Margaret can't disagree with this. Margaret and Helen feel strangely and irrevocably separated - by what? By society, maybe, or the baby, or something else. Helen prepares to leave, and the sisters part amicably. As Helen's on her way out, though, a card arrives from Mr. Wilcox, instructing her to keep Helen around and put her up in a hotel. Helen, however, is suddenly not inclined to leave right away. She takes a look around the house, and can't believe how well all of their things fit there - as though they belong there. The door bell rings. The idea that the Wilcoxes might be there to interrupt suddenly brings the sisters together again, and they rediscover their connection. It's not the Wilcoxes, though - it's a little boy, Tom, who's come with some milk. He was sent by Miss Avery, who seems to think that the sisters will be staying at Howards End. Tom goes away, and Margaret and Helen try to figure out what is so special about Howards End - it seems to make everything feel all right again. Helen has an idea - why don't they spend the night at Howards End, before she leaves for Germany? Margaret resists, knowing that Charles and Henry won't agree to it. But Helen insists - she feels a kind of kinship with the house. Helen reiterates the difference between Schlegels and Wilcoxes - she and Margaret know about life in a way that Henry and Charles don't. Margaret agrees to the plan, and goes off to talk to her husband. She worries that Miss Avery is watching, but she sees only little Tom.


prompt:
Chapter: 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 them 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."

"To-morrow Helen goes to Munich--"

"Well, possibly she is right."

"Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, 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
realise 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
to-morrow--"

"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.
To-night 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 have 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 men are you. You can't recognise them, because you cannot connect.
I've had enough of your unneeded 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Margaret returns to Charles and Dolly's house, and settles into a discussion with Henry about Helen. He tries immediately to take control, and treat her like an ignorant, submissive wife - but she'll have none of that. Margaret tries to jump straight in with her request about Howards End, but Henry's not done. He wants to know who Helen's "seducer" is, and Margaret doesn't know - she didn't even ask. Henry has tried to rally all of the menfolk; he called Charles to tell him about the situation, and Charles, in turn, is paying Tibby a visit. They intend to make Helen's lover marry her, or to otherwise punish him. Margaret gets to the point. She tells Henry that Helen's going to Munich tomorrow, but would like to sleep at Howards End that night. This is a more difficult question for him than it seems like it should be - he doesn't understand the impulse. Margaret tries to explain that Helen wants to be among their things, as a kind of end to her youth and innocence. Henry jumps to a negative conclusion - if Helen stays there one night, maybe she'll never leave. This offends Margaret, who's upset about the implication. Would it be so bad if Helen stayed? Margaret reveals that she wants to stay in Howards End with Helen, which upsets Henry even more. The two of them find themselves at an impasse. Margaret is at the end of her rope. She demands that Henry answer her plainly, and restates all of the facts - can't he forgive Helen for having a lover, since Margaret has forgiven him for Jacky? Can't they just spend one night in Howards End? Henry refuses, saying that he has to be respectful to his children and the first Mrs. Wilcox - Helen can't stay. Margaret, desperate, mentions Jacky again, then comes right out and accuses Mr. Wilcox of all of his crimes - cheating on his first wife, casting Jacky off , not being responsible for Leonard's job. She tells him that he's done just the same thing that Helen's done , but he just can't face up to it. Henry gathers his senses and flatly refuses once more, accusing Margaret of trying to blackmail him. He returns to the house; Margaret stays outside, fuming.


prompt:
Chapter: Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter was staying.
Their interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the
English language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them
understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out
as the most dangerous of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked
forward to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was made up
at once; the girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced them
farther. If occasion offered she might be married to a villain, or,
possibly, to a fool. But this was a concession to morality, it formed
no part of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles's dislike, and
the past spread itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a skilful
compositor. As if they were heads in a note-book, he ran through all
the incidents of the Schlegels' campaign: the attempt to compromise his
brother, his mother's legacy, his father's marriage, the introduction
of the furniture, the unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard of the
request to sleep at Howards End; that was to be their master-stroke and
the opportunity for his. But he already felt that Howards End was the
objective, and, though he disliked the house, was determined to defend
it.

Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood above the
conventions: his sister had a right to do what she thought right. It is
not difficult to stand above the conventions when we leave no hostages
among them; men can always be more unconventional than women, and a
bachelor of independent means need encounter no difficulties at all.
Unlike Charles, Tibby had money enough; his ancestors had earned it for
him, and if he shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only to
move into another. His was the leisure without sympathy--an attitude as
fatal as the strenuous; a little cold culture may be raised on it, but
no art. His sisters had seen the family danger, and had never forgotten
to discount the gold islets that raised them from the sea. Tibby gave
all the praise to himself, and so despised the struggling and the
submerged.

Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf between them was economic
as well as spiritual. But several facts passed; Charles pressed for them
with an impertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand. On what
date had Helen gone abroad? To whom? (Charles was anxious to fasten the
scandal on Germany.) Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: "I
suppose you realise that you are your sister's protector?"

"In what sense?"

"If a man played about with my sister, I'd send a bullet through him,
but perhaps you don't mind."

"I mind very much," protested Tibby.

"Who d'ye suspect, then? Speak out man. One always suspects some one."

"No one. I don't think so." Involuntarily he blushed. He had remembered
the scene in his Oxford rooms.

"You are hiding something," said Charles. As interviews go, he got the
best of this one. "When you saw her last, did she mention any one's
name? Yes or no!" he thundered, so that Tibby started.

"In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the Basts."

"Who are the Basts?"

"People--friends of hers at Evie's wedding."

"I don't remember. But, by great Scott, I do! My aunt told me about some
rag-tag. Was she full of them when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she
speak of the man? Or--look here--have you had any dealings with him?"

Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had betrayed his sister's
confidence; he was not enough interested in human life to see where
things will lead to. He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word,
once given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply vexed, not
only for the harm he had done Helen, but for the flaw he had discovered
in his own equipment.

"I see--you are in his confidence. They met at your rooms. Oh, what a
family, what a family! God help the poor pater--s."

And Tibby found himself alone.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Charles meets with Tibby at the house at Ducie Street. The two of them have nothing at all in common, and their conversation is a travesty. Charles is determined to get rid of Helen, who he sees as nothing but a liability. Tibby, however, has the luxury of wealth and freedom, and he thinks that Helen should be able to do whatever she perceives to be right. His life of leisure has made him unsympathetic to the struggles of others. Charles tries to get Tibby riled up about Helen's pregnancy, and tries to get him to admit the identity of Helen's mystery man. Tibby, menaced by Charles, mentions that Helen had brought up the Basts before - but he says nothing else. Charles takes this to be an admission of guilt, and assumes that Tibby aided and abetted in Helen's affair with Leonard; disgusted, he storms out.


prompt:
Chapter: Leonard--he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that
evening he did not count for much. The foot of the tree was in shadow,
since the moon was still hidden behind the house. But above, to right,
to left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard
seemed not a man, but a cause.

Perhaps it was Helen's way of falling in love--a curious way to
Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henry were yet imprinted
with his image. Helen forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed
her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts,
but had she ever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, having
lost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship?

Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was Helen's evening.
Troubles enough lay ahead of her--the loss of friends and of social
advantages, the agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is not
even yet a matter of common knowledge. For the present let the moon
shine brightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dying away
from the gale of the day, and let the earth, that brings increase, bring
peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen.

She could not assess her trespass by any moral code; it was everything
or nothing. Morality can tell us that murder is worse than stealing, and
group most sins in an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen.
The surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be that
morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they questioned Him.
It is those that cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone.

This was Helen's evening--won at what cost, and not to be marred by the
sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word.

"One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the other
forces that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was full of
pity, and almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and
so, when your letters came--"

"I need never have written them," sighed Margaret. "They never shielded
Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!"

"I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts."

"Looking back, that was wrong of me."

"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save
the man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we
both thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his
callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time--and Mrs. Bast
was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked for a long time to
Leonard--I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have warned me
I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to you for an
explanation. He said that he guessed the explanation--he knew of it, and
you mustn't know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one must know; it
was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. Bast
and Miss Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank with me
when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in two
ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely
myself. He is not to blame. He would have gone on worshipping me. I want
never to see him again, though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him
money and feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about these
things!"

She laid her face against the tree.

"The little, too, that is known about growth! Both times it was
loneliness, and the night, and panic afterwards. Did Leonard grow out of
Paul?"

Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was she that her attention
had actually wandered to the teeth--the teeth that had been thrust into
the tree's bark to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them
gleam. She had been trying to count them. "Leonard is a better growth
than madness," she said. "I was afraid that you would react against Paul
until you went over the verge."

"I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady now. I shan't ever
like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even speak kindly about him, but all
that blinding hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any
more. I understand how you married him, and you will now be very happy."

Margaret did not reply.

"Yes," repeated Helen, her voice growing more tender, "I do at last
understand."

"Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our little movements."

"Because in death--I agree."

"Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are only fragments of that
woman's mind. She knows everything. She is everything. She is the house,
and the tree that leans over it. People have their own deaths as well
as their own lives, and even if there is nothing beyond death, we shall
differ in our nothingness. I cannot believe that knowledge such as hers
will perish with knowledge such as mine. She knew about realities. She
knew when people were in love, though she was not in the room. I don't
doubt that she knew when Henry deceived her."

"Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox," called a voice.

"Oh, good-night, Miss Avery."

"Why should Miss Avery work for us?" Helen murmured.

"Why, indeed?"

Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the hedge that divided
it from the farm. An old gap, which Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had
reappeared, and her track through the dew followed the path that he had
turfed over, when he improved the garden and made it possible for games.

"This is not quite our house yet," said Helen. "When Miss Avery called,
I felt we are only a couple of tourists."

"We shall be that everywhere, and for ever."

"But affectionate tourists."

"But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home."

"I can't pretend very long," said Helen. "Sitting under this tree one
forgets, but I know that to-morrow I shall see the moon rise out of
Germany. Not all your goodness can alter the facts of the case. Unless
you will come with me."

Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she had grown so fond
of England that to leave it was a real grief. Yet what detained her? No
doubt Henry would pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and muddling
into a ripe old age. But what was the good? She had just as soon vanish
from his mind.

"Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get on with your Monica?"

"You would not, but I am serious in asking you."

"Still, no more plans now. And no more reminiscences."

They were silent for a little. It was Helen's evening.

The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made
music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths,
but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled
again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life.
Life passed. The tree rustled again.

"Sleep now," said Margaret.

The peace of the country was entering into her. It has no commerce with
memory, and little with hope. Least of all is it concerned with the
hopes of the next five minutes. It is the peace of the present, which
passes understanding. Its murmur came "now," and "now" once more as they
trod the gravel, and "now," as the moonlight fell upon their father's
sword. They passed upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endless iterations
fell asleep. The house had enshadowed the tree at first, but as the moon
rose higher the two disentangled, and were clear fur a few moments
at midnight. Margaret awoke and looked into the garden. How
incomprehensible that Leonard Bast should have won her this night of
peace! Was he also part of Mrs. Wilcox's mind?

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Helen finally opens up to Margaret about Leonard, but Margaret is confused by how Helen fell in love - with an idea, rather than with a man. The night is all about Helen coming clean and evaluating everything; she realizes that she'd blamed Mr. Wilcox for everything when she should have. Helen also feels guilty about the way in which her relationship with Leonard fell out - after the fact, she never wanted to see him again. Helen's clearly grown a lot; she says she now understands Margaret's marriage to Henry, and even if she never likes him, she'll always understand. Margaret says that only Mrs. Wilcox can and ever understood everyone - there was something magical about her that allowed her to see through everything. The sisters greet Miss Avery, and note that they are still like tourists at Howards End; they wonder if they will always be only tourists everywhere. Helen invites Margaret to join her in Germany - her sister is tempted, but doesn't know if she can bear to leave England. The two of them enjoy a moment of peace under the wych elm tree, and everything seems quiet and still. They embrace and say good night. Margaret wonders once again if everyone, even Leonard Bast, is a part of Mrs. Wilcox's mind.


prompt:
Chapter: Far different was Leonard's development. The months after Oniton,
whatever minor troubles they might bring him, were all overshadowed by
Remorse. When Helen looked back she could philosophise, or she could
look into the future and plan for her child. But the father saw nothing
beyond his own sin. Weeks afterwards, in the midst of other occupations,
he would suddenly cry out, "Brute--you brute, I couldn't have--" and be
rent into two people who held dialogues. Or brown rain would descend,
blotting out faces and the sky. Even Jacky noticed the change in him.
Most terrible were his sufferings when he awoke from sleep. Sometimes
he was happy at first, but grew conscious of a burden hanging to him
and weighing down his thoughts when they would move. Or little irons
scorched his body. Or a sword stabbed him. He would sit at the edge of
his bed, holding his heart and moaning, "Oh what SHALL I do, whatever
SHALL I do?" Nothing brought ease. He could put distance between him and
the trespass, but it grew in his soul.

Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The Greeks were right to
dethrone her. Her action is too capricious, as though the Erinyes
selected for punishment only certain men and certain sins. And of all
means to regeneration Remorse is surely the most wasteful. It cuts away
healthy tissues with the poisoned. It is a knife that probes far deeper
than the evil. Leonard was driven straight through its torments and
emerged pure, but enfeebled--a better man, who would never lose control
of himself again, but also a smaller man, who had less to control. Nor
did purity mean peace. The use of the knife can become a habit as hard
to shake off as passion itself, and Leonard continued to start with a
cry out of dreams.

He built up a situation that was far enough from the truth. It never
occurred to him that Helen was to blame. He forgot the intensity of
their talk, the charm that had been lent him by sincerity, the magic
of Oniton under darkness and of the whispering river. Helen loved the
absolute. Leonard had been ruined absolutely, and had appeared to her
as a man apart, isolated from the world. A real man, who cared for
adventure and beauty, who desired to live decently and pay his way, who
could have travelled more gloriously through life than the juggernaut
car that was crushing him. Memories of Evie's wedding had warped
her, the starched servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustle of
overdressed women, motor-cars oozing grease on the gravel, a pretentious
band. She had tasted the lees of this on her arrival; in the darkness,
after failure, they intoxicated her. She and the victim seemed alone in
a world of unreality, and she loved him absolutely, perhaps for half an
hour.

In the morning she was gone. The note that she left, tender and
hysterical in tone, and intended to be most kind, hurt her lover
terribly. It was as if some work of art had been broken by him, some
picture in the National Gallery slashed out of its frame. When he
recalled her talents and her social position, he felt that the first
passer-by had a right to shoot him down. He was afraid of the waitress
and the porters at the railway-station. He was afraid at first of his
wife, though later he was to regard her with a strange new tenderness,
and to think, "There is nothing to choose between us, after all."

The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts permanently. Helen
in her flight forgot to settle the hotel bill, and took their return
tickets away with her; they had to pawn Jacky's bangles to get home, and
the smash came a few days afterwards. It is true that Helen offered him
five thousand pounds, but such a sum meant nothing to him. He could not
see that the girl was desperately righting herself, and trying to save
something out of the disaster, if it was only five thousand pounds. But
he had to live somehow. He turned to his family, and degraded himself to
a professional beggar. There was nothing else for him to do.

"A letter from Leonard," thought Blanche, his sister; "and after all
this time." She hid it, so that her husband should not see, and when he
had gone to his work read it with some emotion, and sent the prodigal a
little money out of her dress allowance.

"A letter from Leonard!" said the other sister, Laura, a few days later.
She showed it to her husband. He wrote a cruel, insolent reply, but sent
more money than Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to him again.

And during the winter the system was developed.

Leonard realised that they need never starve, because it would be too
painful for his relatives. Society is based on the family, and the
clever wastrel can exploit this indefinitely. Without a generous thought
on either side, pounds and pounds passed. The donors disliked Leonard,
and he grew to hate them intensely. When Laura censured his immoral
marriage, he thought bitterly, "She minds that! What would she say if
she knew the truth?" When Blanche's husband offered him work, he found
some pretext for avoiding it. He had wanted work keenly at Oniton, but
too much anxiety had shattered him, he was joining the unemployable.
When his brother, the lay-reader, did not reply to a letter, he wrote
again, saying that he and Jacky would come down to his village on foot.
He did not intend this as blackmail. Still the brother sent a postal
order, and it became part of the system. And so passed his winter and
his spring.

In the horror there are two bright spots. He never confused the past. He
remained alive, and blessed are those who live, if it is only to a sense
of sinfulness. The anodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur and
blend their mistakes, never passed Leonard's lips--

        "And if I drink oblivion of a day,
         So shorten I the stature of my soul."

It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it lies at the root of
all character.

And the other bright spot was his tenderness for Jacky. He pitied her
with nobility now--not the contemptuous pity of a man who sticks to a
woman through thick and thin. He tried to be less irritable. He wondered
what her hungry eyes desired--nothing that she could express, or that
he or any man could give her. Would she ever receive the justice that is
mercy--the justice for by-products that the world is too busy to bestow?
She was fond of flowers, generous with money, and not revengeful. If she
had borne him a child he might have cared for her. Unmarried, Leonard
would never have begged; he would have flickered out and died. But the
whole of life is mixed. He had to provide for Jacky, and went down dirty
paths that she might have a few feathers and the dishes of food that
suited her.

One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother. He was in St.
Paul's. He had entered the cathedral partly to avoid the rain and partly
to see a picture that had educated him in former years. But the light
was bad, the picture ill placed, and Time and judgment were inside him
now. Death alone still charmed him, with her lap of poppies, on which
all men shall sleep. He took one glance, and turned aimlessly away
towards a chair. Then down the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and her
brother. They stood in the fairway of passengers, and their faces were
extremely grave. He was perfectly certain that they were in trouble
about their sister.

Once outside--and he fled immediately--he wished that he had spoken
to them. What was his life? What were a few angry words, or even
imprisonment? He had done wrong--that was the true terror. Whatever they
might know, he would tell them everything he knew. He re-entered St.
Paul's. But they had moved in his absence, and had gone to lay their
difficulties before Mr. Wilcox and Charles.

The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new channels. He desired to
confess, and though the desire is proof of a weakened nature, which
is about to lose the essence of human intercourse, it did not take
an ignoble form. He did not suppose that confession would bring him
happiness. It was rather that he yearned to get clear of the tangle. So
does the suicide yearn. The impulses are akin, and the crime of suicide
lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave
behind. Confession need harm no one--it can satisfy that test--and
though it was un-English, and ignored by our Anglican cathedral, Leonard
had a right to decide upon it.

Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her hardness now. That cold,
intellectual nature of hers would be just, if unkind. He would do
whatever she told him, even if he had to see Helen. That was the supreme
punishment she would exact. And perhaps she would tell him how Helen
was. That was the supreme reward.

He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether she was married to Mr.
Wilcox, and tracking her out took several days. That evening he
toiled through the wet to Wickham Place, where the new flats were now
appearing. Was he also the cause of their move? Were they expelled from
society on his account? Thence to a public library, but could find no
satisfactory Schlegel in the directory. On the morrow he searched again.
He hung about outside Mr. Wilcox's office at lunch time, and, as the
clerks came out said, "Excuse me, sir, but is your boss married?" Most
of them stared, some said, "What's that to you?" but one, who had not
yet acquired reticence, told him what he wished. Leonard could not learn
the private address. That necessitated more trouble with directories
and tubes. Ducie Street was not discovered till the Monday, the day
that Margaret and her husband went down on their hunting expedition to
Howards End.

He called at about four o'clock. The weather had changed, and the
sun shone gaily on the ornamental steps--black and white marble in
triangles. Leonard lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell. He
felt in curious health; doors seemed to be opening and shutting inside
his body, and he had been obliged to sleep sitting up in bed, with his
back propped against the wall. When the parlourmaid came he could not
see her face; the brown rain had descended suddenly.

"Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?" he asked.

"She's out," was the answer.

"When will she be back?"

"I'll ask," said the parlourmaid.

Margaret had given instructions that no one who mentioned her name
should ever be rebuffed. Putting the door on the chain--for Leonard's
appearance demanded this--she went through to the smoking-room, which
was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He had had a good lunch.
Charles Wilcox had not yet rung him up for the distracting interview. He
said drowsily: "I don't know. Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?"

"I'll ask, sir."

"No, don't bother."

"They have taken the car to Howards End," said the parlourmaid to
Leonard.

He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was.

"You appear to want to know a good deal," she remarked. But Margaret had
forbidden her to be mysterious. She told him against her better judgment
that Howards End was in Hertfordshire.

"Is it a village, please?"

"Village! It's Mr. Wilcox's private house--at least, it's one of them.
Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture there. Hilton is the village."

"Yes. And when will they be back?"

"Mr. Schlegel doesn't know. We can't know everything, can we?" She
shut him out, and went to attend to the telephone, which was ringing
furiously.

He loitered away another night of agony. Confession grew more difficult.
As soon as possible he went to bed. He watched a patch of moonlight
cross the floor of their lodging, and, as sometimes happens when the
mind is overtaxed, he fell asleep for the rest of the room, but kept
awake for the patch of moonlight. Horrible! Then began one of those
disintegrating dialogues. Part of him said: "Why horrible? It's ordinary
light from the moon." "But it moves." "So does the moon." "But it is a
clenched fist." "Why not?" "But it is going to touch me." "Let it." And,
seeming to gather motion, the patch ran up his blanket. Presently a
blue snake appeared; then another parallel to it. "Is there life in the
moon?" "Of course." "But I thought it was uninhabited." "Not by Time,
Death, Judgment, and the smaller snakes." "Smaller snakes!" said Leonard
indignantly and aloud. "What a notion!" By a rending effort of the
will he woke the rest of the room up. Jacky, the bed, their food, their
clothes on the chair, gradually entered his consciousness, and the
horror vanished outwards, like a ring that is spreading through water.

"I say, Jacky, I'm going out for a bit."

She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fell clear of the
striped blanket, and began to cover the shawl that lay over her feet.
Why had he been afraid? He went to the window, and saw that the moon
was descending through a clear sky. He saw her volcanoes, and the bright
expanses that a gracious error has named seas. They paled, for the sun,
who had lit them up, was coming to light the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea
of Tranquillity, Ocean of the Lunar Storms, merged into one lucent drop,
itself to slip into the sempiternal dawn. And he had been afraid of the
moon!

He dressed among the contending lights, and went through his money. It
was running low again, but enough for a return ticket to Hilton. As it
clinked, Jacky opened her eyes.

"Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!"

"What ho, Jacky! see you again later."

She turned over and slept.

The house was unlocked, their landlord being a salesman at Covent
Garden. Leonard passed out and made his way down to the station. The
train, though it did not start for an hour, was already drawn up at the
end of the platform, and he lay down in it and slept. With the first
jolt he was in daylight; they had left the gateways of King's Cross,
and were under blue sky. Tunnels followed, and after each the sky grew
bluer, and from the embankment at Finsbury Park he had his first sight
of the sun. It rolled along behind the eastern smokes--a wheel, whose
fellow was the descending moon--and as yet it seemed the servant of the
blue sky, not its lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it was day. To
the left fell the shadow of the embankment and its arches; to the right
Leonard saw up into the Tewin Woods and towards the church, with its
wild legend of immortality. Six forest trees--that is a fact--grow out
of one of the graves in Tewin churchyard. The grave's occupant--that is
the legend--is an atheist, who declared that if God existed, six forest
trees would grow out of her grave. These things in Hertfordshire; and
farther afield lay the house of a hermit--Mrs. Wilcox had known him--who
barred himself up, and wrote prophecies, and gave all he had to the
poor. While, powdered in between, were the villas of business men, who
saw life more steadily, though with the steadiness of the half-closed
eye. Over all the sun was streaming, to all the birds were singing, to
all the primroses were yellow, and the speedwell blue, and the country,
however they interpreted her, was uttering her cry of "now." She did
not free Leonard yet, and the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the
train drew up at Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful.

Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. Leonard noticed the
contrast when he stepped out of it into the country. Here men had been
up since dawn. Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by
the movements of the crops and the sun. That they were men of the finest
type only the sentimentalists can declare. But they kept to the life of
daylight. They are England's hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch
of the sun, until such time as the nation sees fit to take it up. Half
clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can still throw back to a
nobler stock, and breed yeomen.

At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another type, whom Nature
favours--the Imperial. Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the
earth. It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is the
temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries his country's
virtue overseas. But the Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He
is a destroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, and though his
ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth that he inherits will be grey.

To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of
innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been
taught at school. Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins
stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the superficial. It
was rather paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man,
but the idea of death saves him--that is the best account of it that has
yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in
us, and strengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain
that they will, for they are not love's servants. But they can beckon,
and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him.

As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions
stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed,
but had done no sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done
wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a
supreme adventure.

He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found
in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very
easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret's amongst them.
His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said,
"Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of
his life."

"Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong."

The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were
screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it
descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing
had sense.

"Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm.
"He's shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out
into the air."

Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid
Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him.

"That's enough," said Charles.

"Yes, murder's enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with
the sword.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Poor Leonard is not having a good time; he, unlike Helen, hasn't been able to intellectually process their affair. He's full of remorse. Leonard never once imagines that it might be Helen's fault, or that they might at least share the blame. We, however, see that she is just as responsible as he was, or perhaps more - she loves things that are absolute, and Leonard's total destruction appealed to her. The morning after their tryst, Helen was gone. She left a note that meant to be kind, but broke Leonard's heart; he felt immediately terrified and guilty, as though he'd ruined her. The trip to Evie's wedding really destroyed the Basts financially. Helen, in her fit of passion, forgot to pay the hotel bill, and also ran off with their return train tickets. Despite all of her talk about being responsible, we see that she was really careless, selfish, and destructive. Leonard, desperate, was forced to ask his estranged family for money. He succeeds in wheedling some cash out of his two sisters and their husbands, but this just makes them hate each other more. The only things that keep Leonard alive are his sense of really living, even if it means suffering, and his affection for Jacky. He seems to view her as a kind of pathetic animal who needs care; this sense of duty keeps him going. One day, Leonard sees Margaret and Tibby from afar. He wants to come clean and tell them everything - he trusts Margaret, and decides that he must talk to her. He figures out where she lives, and stops by Ducie Street. Leonard finds out from the maid, who finds out from Tibby that Margaret is at Howards End, in Hilton. Leonard stays awake all night thinking about his confession. He's tormented by his imagination, and eventually gets up to go out, telling Jacky that he'll be back soon. Leonard takes a train to Hilton overnight and reaches his destination in the morning. He feels more alive and optimistic in the countryside, far from the artifice of the city. Leonard reaches Howards End, and finds himself with Margaret and some other people. He is totally disoriented and confused - and is attacked by a strange man, who grabs him by the collar and says that he's going to thrash him. Confusion and violence ensues; Leonard is attacked by a bright stick, then collapses under a falling bookshelf. It's chaos. Charles, the attacker, declares that Leonard is faking - but, in fact, he's dead. They carry him outside. Margaret and Helen don't understand at first - they pour water on him, hoping to revive him. Miss Avery comes out and says that Charles murdered Leonard.


prompt:
Chapter: When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but
had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then
his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones
inquired for Margaret.

"I don't know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner
nearly an hour for her."

"Tell me when she comes in."

Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his
father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not
returned.

"I'll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming.
Isn't she stopping with her sister at the hotel?"

"Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--"perhaps."

"Can I do anything for you, sir?"

"Not to-night, my boy."

Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son
more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles
as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable
his children were left to him.

After midnight he tapped on Charles's door. "I can't sleep," he said. "I
had better have a talk with you and get it over."

He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and
they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very
quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as
bad as her sister.

"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had
of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of
thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with
her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be
yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one
is to live there. I won't have it." He looked angrily at the moon.
"To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the
rights of property itself."

"Undoubtedly," said Charles.

Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son's, but somehow liked him less as
he told him more. "I don't want you to conclude that my wife and I had
anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who
would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding
that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua
non."

"Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?"

"Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of
course, use no violence, Charles."

On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the
gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was
due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss
Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his
way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and
said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading
his eyes from the sun.

"It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there,
and they had the man up there with them too."

"What--what man?"

"I told you last night. His name was Bast."

"My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother's house!
Charles, in your mother's house!"

"I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is
no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart
disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went
off. The police are seeing about it at this moment."

Mr. Wilcox listened attentively.

"I got up there--oh, it couldn't have been more than half-past seven.
The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs.
I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and
collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and
Mrs. Wilcox said, 'Oh yes, I see; yes,' in that way of hers."

"Nothing else?"

"I promised to tell you, 'with her love,' that she was going to Germany
with her sister this evening. That was all we had time for."

Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved.

"Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly
Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it, and I went for him
in the hall. Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little
too far."

"Right, my dear boy? I don't know. But you would have been no son of
mine if you hadn't. Then did he just--just--crumple up as you said?" He
shrunk from the simple word.

"He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I merely
put the sword down and carried him into the garden. We all thought he
was shamming. However, he's dead right enough. Awful business!"

"Sword?" cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. "What sword? Whose
sword?"

"A sword of theirs."

"What were you doing with it?"

"Well, didn't you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy.
I hadn't a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the
shoulders with the flat of their old German sword."

"Then what?"

"He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell," aid Charles, with
a sigh. It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite
satisfied.

"But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you're sure?"

"That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest
on such unsavoury topics."

They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking headache, consequent on
motoring before food. He was also anxious about the future, reflecting
that the police must detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and
ferret the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged to leave Hilton. One
could not afford to live near the scene of a scandal--it was not fair on
one's wife. His comfort was that the pater's eyes were opened at last.
There would be a horrible smash-up, and probably a separation from
Margaret; then they would all start again, more as they had been in his
mother's time.

"I think I'll go round to the police-station," said his father when
breakfast was over.

"What for?" cried Dolly, who had still not been "told."

"Very well, sir. Which car will you have?"

"I think I'll walk."

"It's a good half-mile," said Charles, stepping into the garden. "The
sun's very hot for April. Shan't I take you up, and then, perhaps, a
little spin round by Tewin?"

"You go on as if I didn't know my own mind," said Mr. Wilcox fretfully.
Charles hardened his mouth. "You young fellows' one idea is to get into
a motor. I tell you, I want to walk; I'm very fond of walking."

"Oh, all right; I'm about the house if you want me for anything. I
thought of not going up to the office to-day, if that is your wish."

"It is, indeed, my boy," said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his sleeve.

Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his father, who did not
seem himself this morning. There was a petulant touch about him--more
like a woman. Could it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not
lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not know how to
use it. It was the talent in the napkin, and, for a warm-hearted man,
Charles had conveyed very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling
up the road, he had a vague regret--a wish that something had been
different somewhere--a wish (though he did not express it thus) that
he had been taught to say "I" in his youth. He meant to make up for
Margaret's defection, but knew that his father had been very happy with
her until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick, no
doubt--but how?

Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. There was to be an
inquest on Leonard's body to-morrow, and the police required his son to
attend.

"I expected that," said Charles. "I shall naturally be the most
important witness there."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Rewind - we go back to Charles's encounter with Tibby. After leaving Ducie Street, Charles returns home, not knowing about the whole Helen-at-Howards End debacle. Mr. Wilcox is worried about Margaret, who hasn't come home . Late that night, Charles and Mr. Wilcox have a heart-to-heart. Mr. Wilcox is worried about Margaret, and he's certain now that she's disobeyed him and gone to Howards End. He asks his son to go to the house the next morning and sort things out - basically, to kick Helen and Margaret out of Howards End. He's very clear in telling Charles not to use violence. OK, fast forward to the present moment - Leonard is dead by Charles's hand. Charles still thinks he didn't use violence. After all, he only struck Leonard with the flat part of the sword . Miss Avery and Margaret both agree that Charles didn't use the edge, and he assumes that Leonard's death was due to a heart attack - of course, Charles himself isn't at fault. Charles stops by the police station in Hilton on his way back home and informs them that there's a dead man at Howards End. He tells them his part of the story is thanked, and goes home to tell his father. Charles informs Henry that he found Leonard at Howards End, and Henry is horrified - Charles makes it out as though Margaret and Helen were at fault somehow. The way he tells it, Leonard was in the last stages of heart disease, and just when Charles was going to show him what for, he just up and died. Mr. Wilcox goes along with the story until Charles mentions the sword, at which point, his father freaks out. It certainly sounds suspicious... It's unclear as to what the real cause of death was. Charles is anxious, and wonders what will happen in the aftermath of this scandal. Surely, they'll have to leave Hilton. He's just glad that, as he sees it, he's cleared the way for a breakup between Henry and Margaret. Mr. Wilcox casually mentions that he's going to go to the police station. Mr. Wilcox shows an unusual tenderness towards Charles, which makes his son suspicious. Mr. Wilcox returns, looking exhausted, and says that there'll be an inquest the next day, which Charles will have to attend. His son pompously and blindly assumes that he will naturally have to be there to act as the key witness.