Chapter: "Henry dear--" was her greeting.

He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the Times. His
sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt by him and took the paper from
him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her
face where it had been, she looked up in his eyes.

"Henry dear, look at me. No, I won't have you shirking. Look at me.
There. That's all."

"You're referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I have released
you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won't. No, I
won't. A thousand times no. I'm a bad lot, and must be left at that."

Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one.
He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself
instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.

"Leave it where you will, boy. It's not going to trouble us; I know what
I'm talking about, and it will make no difference."

"No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when you find that I am
not the fellow you thought?" He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He
would have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to
rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not
altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; they had read books
that are suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and
though she had determined against one, there was a scene, all the same.
It was somehow imperative.

"I am unworthy of you," he began. "Had I been worthy, I should not have
released you from your engagement. I know what I am talking about. I
can't bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it."

She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, rising to his feet,
went on: "You, with your sheltered life, and refined pursuits, and
friends, and books, you and your sister, and women like you--I say, how
can you guess the temptations that lie round a man?"

"It is difficult for us," said Margaret; "but if we are worth marrying,
we do guess."

"Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do you suppose
happens to thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated. No one near. I
know by bitter experience, and yet you say it makes 'no difference.'"

"Not to me."

He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard and helped herself
to one of the breakfast dishes. Being the last down, she turned out the
spirit-lamp that kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew
that Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing out the gulf
between the male soul and the female, and she did not desire to hear him
on this point.

"Did Helen come?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"But that won't do at all, at all! We don't want her gossiping with Mrs.
Bast."

"Good God! no!" he exclaimed, suddenly natural. Then he caught himself
up. "Let them gossip, my game's up, though I thank you for your
unselfishness--little as my thanks are worth."

"Didn't she send me a message or anything?"

"I heard of none."

"Would you ring the bell, please?"

"What to do?"

"Why, to inquire."

He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal. Margaret poured
herself out some coffee. The butler came, and said that Miss Schlegel
had slept at the George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to
the George?

"I'll go, thank you," said Margaret, and dismissed him.

"It is no good," said Henry. "Those things leak out; you cannot stop a
story once it has started. I have known cases of other men--I despised
them once, I thought that I'm different, I shall never be tempted. Oh,
Margaret--" He came and sat down near her, improvising emotion. She
could not bear to listen to him. "We fellows all come to grief once in
our time. Will you believe that? There are moments when the strongest
man--'Let him who standeth, take heed lest he fall.' That's true,
isn't it? If you knew all, you would excuse me. I was far from good
influences--far even from England. I was very, very lonely, and longed
for a woman's voice. That's enough. I have told you too much already for
you to forgive me now."

"Yes, that's enough, dear."

"I have"--he lowered his voice--"I have been through hell."

Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he suffered tortures of
remorse, or had it been, "There! that's over. Now for respectable life
again"? The latter, if she read him rightly. A man who has been through
hell does not boast of his virility. He is humble and hides it, if,
indeed, it still exists. Only in legend does the sinner come forth
penitent, but terrible, to conquer pure woman by his resistless power.
Henry was anxious to be terrible, but had not got it in him. He was a
good average Englishman, who had slipped. The really culpable point--his
faithlessness to Mrs. Wilcox--never seemed to strike him. She longed to
mention Mrs. Wilcox.

And bit by bit the story was told her. It was a very simple story. Ten
years ago was the time, a garrison town in Cyprus the place. Now and
then he asked her whether she could possibly forgive him, and she
answered, "I have already forgiven you, Henry." She chose her words
carefully, and so saved him from panic. She played the girl, until he
could rebuild his fortress and hide his soul from the world. When the
butler came to clear away, Henry was in a very different mood--asked
the fellow what he was in such a hurry for, complained of the noise last
night in the servants' hall. Margaret looked intently at the butler. He,
as a handsome young man, was faintly attractive to her as a woman--an
attraction so faint as scarcely to be perceptible, yet the skies would
have fallen if she had mentioned it to Henry.

On her return from the George the building operations were complete, and
the old Henry fronted her, competent, cynical, and kind. He had made a
clean breast, had been forgiven, and the great thing now was to forget
his failure, and to send it the way of other unsuccessful investments.
Jacky rejoined Howards End and Dude Street, and the vermilion motor-car,
and the Argentine Hard Dollars, and all the things and people for whom
he had never had much use and had less now. Their memory hampered him.
He could scarcely attend to Margaret, who brought back disquieting news
from the George. Helen and her clients had gone.

"Well, let them go--the man and his wife, I mean, for the more we see of
your sister the better."

"But they have gone separately--Helen very early, the Basts just before
I arrived. They have left no message. They have answered neither of my
notes. I don't like to think what it all means."

"What did you say in the notes?"

"I told you last night."

"Oh--ah--yes! Dear, would you like one turn in the garden?"

Margaret took his arm. The beautiful weather soothed her. But the wheels
of Evie's wedding were still at work, tossing the guests outwards as
deftly as they had drawn them in, and she could not be with him long. It
had been arranged that they should motor to Shrewsbury, whence he would
go north, and she back to London with the Warringtons. For a fraction of
time she was happy. Then her brain recommenced.

"I am afraid there has been gossiping of some kind at the George. Helen
would not have left unless she had heard something. I mismanaged that.
It is wretched. I ought to have parted her from that woman at once."

"Margaret!" he exclaimed, loosing her arm impressively.

"Yes--yes, Henry?"

"I am far from a saint--in fact, the reverse--but you have taken me, for
better or worse. Bygones must be bygones. You have promised to forgive
me. Margaret, a promise is a promise. Never mention that woman again."

"Except for some practical reason--never."

"Practical! You practical!"

"Yes, I'm practical," she murmured, stooping over the mowing-machine and
playing with the grass which trickled through her fingers like sand.

He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy. Not for the first
time, he was threatened with blackmail. He was rich and supposed to be
moral; the Basts knew that he was not, and might find it profitable to
hint as much.

"At all events, you mustn't worry," he said. "This is a man's business."
He thought intently. "On no account mention it to anybody."

Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was really paving the
way for a lie. If necessary he would deny that he had ever known Mrs.
Bast, and prosecute her for libel. Perhaps he never had known her. Here
was Margaret, who behaved as if he had not. There the house. Round them
were half a dozen gardeners, clearing up after his daughter's wedding.
All was so solid and spruce, that the past flew up out of sight like a
spring-blind, leaving only the last five minutes unrolled.

Glancing at these, he saw that the car would be round during the
next five, and plunged into action. Gongs were tapped, orders issued,
Margaret was sent to dress, and the housemaid to sweep up the long
trickle of grass that she had left across the hall. As is Man to the
Universe, so was the mind of Mr. Wilcox to the minds of some men--a
concentrated light upon a tiny spot, a little Ten Minutes moving
self-contained through its appointed years. No Pagan he, who lives for
the Now, and may be wiser than all philosophers. He lived for the five
minutes that have past, and the five to come; he had the business mind.

How did he stand now, as his motor slipped out of Oniton and breasted
the great round hills? Margaret had heard a certain rumour, but was all
right. She had forgiven him, God bless her, and he felt the manlier for
it. Charles and Evie had not heard it, and never must hear. No more must
Paul. Over his children he felt great tenderness, which he did not try
to track to a cause; Mrs. Wilcox was too far back in his life. He did
not connect her with the sudden aching love that he felt for Evie. Poor
little Evie! he trusted that Cahill would make her a decent husband.

And Margaret? How did she stand?

She had several minor worries. Clearly her sister had heard something.
She dreaded meeting her in town. And she was anxious about Leonard, for
whom they certainly were responsible. Nor ought Mrs. Bast to starve. But
the main situation had not altered. She still loved Henry. His actions,
not his disposition, had disappointed her, and she could bear that. And
she loved her future home. Standing up in the car, just where she had
leapt from it two days before, she gazed back with deep emotion upon
Oniton. Besides the Grange and the Castle keep, she could now pick out
the church and the black-and-white gables of the George. There was the
bridge, and the river nibbling its green peninsula. She could even
see the bathing-shed, but while she was looking for Charles's new
spring-board, the forehead of the hill rose and hid the whole scene.

She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows down into England,
day after day the sun retreats into the Welsh mountains, and the tower
chimes, See the Conquering Hero. But the Wilcoxes have no part in the
place, nor in any place. It is not their names that recur in the parish
register. It is not their ghosts that sigh among the alders at evening.
They have swept into the valley and swept out of it, leaving a little
dust and a little money behind.

 The next morning, Margaret confronts Mr. Wilcox. She tells him it doesn't make any difference to her, and he gets angry at this - he thinks that she's not acting like a real woman, and that she should be upset. Henry tries to push Margaret away, saying that he's not worthy of her love. He believes in the distinct difference between men and women, and the worlds they live in. Margaret inquires about Helen, only to find that she didn't show up last night. She's worried that Helen will find out the truth about Henry and Jacky and spread the story. Mr. Wilcox thinks it's no use to try and stop it from getting out. Henry gives in to emotion and tells Margaret the story of his relationship with Jacky. Ten years ago, they met in Cyprus - and the rest is history. Margaret makes him feel better by telling him that she's already forgiven him. Margaret goes to the hotel to try and rustle up her sister. When she returns, Mr. Wilcox is recovered from his bout with emotion, and is his old, businesslike self. Margaret has some bad news - the Basts and Helen have all gone from the hotel, with no word about their whereabouts. Margaret and Henry take a walk around the garden. Henry makes her promise never to mention Jacky again; he's worried that they might blackmail him, and tells his fiancee that he'll take care of the situation. When they get back to the house, Mr. Wilcox basically puts the matter out of his mind - Margaret has forgiven him, and his children must never hear about it. That's all that matters. Margaret herself is worried about Leonard and, like Helen, feels responsible for his troubles. That being said, though, she doesn't want to do anything about it; she's made up her mind to continue loving Mr. Wilcox, and to become part of his world.

