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.



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."



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.



Tom's father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid
whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing
circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen.
"I haven't any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?"

Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?"
she asked.

"Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?"

"I haven't the least notion," answered Margaret, and took up her work
again.

"Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not
to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he
is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as
careful as all that?"

Tom held out his arms.

"That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret.

"He is fond of baby. That's why he does it!" was Helen's answer.
"They're going to be lifelong friends."

"Starting at the ages of six and one?"

"Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom."

"It may be a greater thing for baby."

Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End.
No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the
great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with
the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the
wheat. These little events would become part of her year after year.
Every summer she would fear lest the well should give out, every
winter lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might blow the
wych-elm down and bring the end of all things, and so she could not read
or talk during a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and her
sister were sitting on the remains of Evie's rockery, where the lawn
merged into the field.

"What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can they be doing inside?"
Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of
the cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by
them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes.

"I wish Henry was out to enjoy this," said Helen. "This lovely weather
and to be shut up in the house! It's very hard."

"It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay fever is his chief objection
against living here, but he thinks it worth while."

"Meg, is or isn't he ill? I can't make out."

"Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and
noticed nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a
thing."

"I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle."

"Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, to-day. Still,
he wanted them all to come. It has to be."

"Why does he want them?"

Margaret did not answer.

"Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry."

"You'd be odd if you didn't," said Margaret.

"I usen't to."

"Usen't!" She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past.
They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were
building up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard
was dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One usen't always to see
clearly before that time. It was different now.

"I like Henry because he does worry."

"And he likes you because you don't."

Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands.
After a time she said: "About love," a transition less abrupt than it
appeared.

Margaret never stopped working.

"I mean a woman's love for a man. I supposed I should hang my life on
to that once, and was driven up and down and about as if something was
worrying through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem cured. That
Herr Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writing about, must be a noble
character, but he doesn't see that I shall never marry him or anyone. It
isn't shame or mistrust of myself. I simply couldn't. I'm ended. I used
to be so dreamy about a man's love as a girl, and think that for good
or evil love must be the great thing. But it hasn't been; it has been
itself a dream. Do you agree?"

"I do not agree. I do not."

"I ought to remember Leonard as my lover," said Helen, stepping down
into the field. "I tempted him, and killed him, and it is surely the
least I can do. I would like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on
such an afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no good pretending. I
am forgetting him." Her eyes filled with tears. "How nothing seems to
match--how, my darling, my precious--" She broke off. "Tommy!"

"Yes, please?"

"Baby's not to try and stand.--There's something wanting in me. I see
you loving Henry, and understanding him better daily, and I know
that death wouldn't part you in the least. But I--Is it some awful,
appalling, criminal defect?"

Margaret silenced her. She said: "It is only that people are far more
different than is pretended. All over the world men and women are
worrying because they cannot develop as they are supposed to develop.
Here and there they have the matter out, and it comforts them. Don't
fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you have; love your child. I do not
love children. I am thankful to have none. I can play with their beauty
and charm, but that is all--nothing real, not one scrap of what there
ought to be. And others--others go farther still, and move outside
humanity altogether. A place, as well as a person, may catch the glow.
Don't you see that all this leads to comfort in the end? It is part of
the battle against sameness. Differences, eternal differences, planted
by God in a single family, so that there may always be colour; sorrow
perhaps, but colour in the daily grey. Then I can't have you worrying
about Leonard. Don't drag in the personal when it will not come. Forget
him."

"Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?"

"Perhaps an adventure."

"Is that enough?"

"Not for us. But for him."

Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the sorrel, and the red
and white and yellow clover, and the quaker grass, and the daisies, and
the bents that composed it. She raised it to her face.

"Is it sweetening yet?" asked Margaret.

"No, only withered."

"It will sweeten to-morrow."

Helen smiled. "Oh, Meg, you are a person," she said. "Think of the
racket and torture this time last year. But now I couldn't stop unhappy
if I tried. What a change--and all through you!"

"Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry learnt to understand one
another and to forgive, all through the autumn and the winter."

"Yes, but who settled us down?"

Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and she took off her
pince-nez to watch it.

"You!" cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, though you're too stupid
to see. Living here was your plan--I wanted you; he wanted you; and
everyone said it was impossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives
without you, Meg--I and baby with Monica, revolting by theory, he handed
about from Dolly to Evie. But you picked up the pieces, and made us a
home. Can't it strike you--even for a moment--that your life has been
heroic? Can't you remember the two months after Charles's arrest, when
you began to act, and did all?"

"You were both ill at the time," said Margaret. "I did the obvious
things. I had two invalids to nurse. Here was a house, ready furnished
and empty. It was obvious. I didn't know myself it would turn into a
permanent home. No doubt I have done a little towards straightening the
tangle, but things that I can't phrase have helped me."

"I hope it will be permanent," said Helen, drifting away to other
thoughts.

"I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our
own."

"All the same, London's creeping."

She pointed over the meadow--over eight or nine meadows, but at the end
of them was a red rust.

"You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," she continued. "I can
see it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something
else, I'm afraid. Life's going to be melted down, all over the world."

Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the
Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot
was being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive.
One's hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth
beating time?

"Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever,"
she said. "This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred
years. It may be followed by a civilisation that won't be a movement,
because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but
I can't help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel
that our house is the future as well as the past."

They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now,
for Helen's child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then
Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window
of the hall, and the door opened.

"The conclave's breaking at last. I'll go."

It was Paul.

Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices
greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black
moustache.

"My father has asked for you," he said with hostility.

She took her work and followed him.

"We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew
all about it beforehand."

"Yes, I did."

Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul
drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave
a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she
stopped in the hall to take Dolly's boa and gloves out of a vase.

Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and
by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly,
dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and
airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the
hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had
met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said.
Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six.

"Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used
the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I
don't want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been
unfair."

"It's apparently got to suit us," said Paul.

"I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the
house to you instead."

Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I've
given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look
after the business, it's no good my settling down here," he said at
last. "It's not really the country, and it's not the town."

"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?"

"Of course, father."

"And you, Dolly?"

Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not
steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted
it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot
possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought
to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits
Charles and me, and I can't think of any other name."

There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that
she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm.

"Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let
everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy
and no surprise."

Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph.
She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight
through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives.

"In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own
wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also
giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent
of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of
money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten
years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down
in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?"

Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little
shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said:
"Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole
establishment, piccaninnies included."

Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don't, Paul. You promised you'd take care."
Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave.

Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don't you worry
about me."

"Good-bye, dad."

Then it was Dolly's turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously,
and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox
should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all."

From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret,
and kissed her.

And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Dolly."

"So long, father."

"Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox."

"Good-bye."

Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her
husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But
Dolly's remark had interested her. At last she said: "Could you tell me,
Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?"

Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very old story.
When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some
return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled 'Howards End' on
a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly
fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaret would be to me
in the future."

Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses,
and she shivered.

"I didn't do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down.

"You didn't, darling. Nothing has been done wrong."

From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at last!" exclaimed Henry,
disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding
Tom by one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of
infectious joy.

"The field's cut!" Helen cried excitedly--"the big meadow! We've seen to
the very end, and it'll be such a crop of hay as never!"

WEYBRIDGE, 1908-1910.

 Since his intimate meeting with Helen at Oniton, Leonard Bast has been living in misery. He blames himself for the entire situation, although more likely than not, she was the one who initiated their relationship. Leonard thinks he has ruined Helen, likening her to a work of art, and he constantly feels anxiety about what has become of her. He is also in grave trouble financially. Helen forgot to pay the hotel bill when she ran off, which left him and Jacky to figure out a way to settle it and get back to London. After their brief tryst, Helen left him a note and was gone. One of the only thinks keeping Leonard alive is his need to provide for Jacky. He considers himself unemployable and ruined, and relies on handouts from his family for support. He knows that they would rather give him money than have him show up on their doorstep. One day, when he happens to see Margaret from afar, he decides he must confess his sin to her and, if possible, find out how Helen is. He tracks Margaret down at Ducie Street and, once he is informed she has gone to Howards End, decides to go there as well. Leonard leaves in the middle of the night, and arrives at Hilton very early in the morning. He, too, is taken with how different the country is from city life. For Leonard, it is a welcome change. He walks to Howards End from the station, and by the time he arrives has barely mustered up the courage to confess to Margaret. However, as soon as he gets to the house, Charles intercepts him. He can hardly get his words of confession out before Charles strikes him with the blunt end of a sword that belonged to Mr. Schlegel. Upon being struck, Leonard feels a terrible pain, not on the impact point of the blow, but in his heart. He falls to the floor, taking a bookshelf with him, and dies in a shower of books, not from the sword, but from a heart attack. Even though Charles' blow did not directly cause Leonard's death, Miss Avery makes a comment about Charles having committed murder. Back at Dolly's, Mr. Wilcox is quite worried because Margaret has not come home. He discusses the situation with Charles, for he knows that he will have to explain himself at some point. Charles says he will go to Howards End first thing in the morning, which is when he encounters Leonard Bast and strikes him. Upon returning to his father, Charles announces what happened at Howards End. He assumes that Leonard was there for sinful reasons, thinking that the Schlegels allowed him to stay the night. He acknowledges the scandal of the situation that resulted in his violence, admitting he and Dolly will likely have to relocate. Despite Leonard's death, Charles does not seem sorry, and is pleased that Margaret will be out of his father's life. Following Leonard Bast's death, everyone feels overwhelmed. An inquest is held, where it is agreed upon that heart disease was the main cause of death. After this traumatic experience, Helen is ready to depart for Germany once again. Margaret plans to go with her. Before departing, Mr. Wilcox summons her. She assumes that he wants to collect the keys to Howards End, and she goes to see him under that assumption. Mr. Wilcox tells Margaret that Charles will be charged with manslaughter against Leonard Bast. He is genuinely upset by this development, but Margaret is still bitter over the recent events and shows no mercy. She is firm with him, even when he admits that he is broken. However, things quickly turn around. Charles is found guilty of manslaughter and is sentenced to three years in jail, which breaks Mr. Wilcox's spirit. He turns to Margaret as his sole source of comfort, and since Helen, too, is in need of support, Margaret looks after both her husband and her sister. She finds that her only option is to take them to Howards End. One year later, Helen has had a boy whom Tom, the milk boy, loves to play with. Helen and Mr. Wilcox have learned to get along, and the three adults live together in peace. Mr. Wilcox gathers his children to inform them that he is going to leave Howards End to Margaret, who will in turn leave it to her nephew, Helen's illegitimate son. Margaret is called in to be present for this announcement, and Dolly, there in Charles's stead, foolishly makes a comment about Ruth Wilcox's wishes having been fulfilled. When Margaret asks her husband about the meaning of this remark, he is honest with her. She tells him that she is not upset, for all has come together, and Helen's child will grow up in the wonderful countryside.

