Chapter: It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley's health had been bad all
winter. She had had a long series of colds and coughs, and had been too
busy to get rid of them. She had scarcely promised her niece "to really
take my tiresome chest in hand," when she caught a chill and developed
acute pneumonia. Margaret and Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was
telegraphed for, and that spring party that after all gathered in that
hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories. On a perfect day,
when the sky seemed blue porcelain, and the waves of the discreet little
bay beat gentlest of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through
the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness of Death.
One death may explain itself, but it throws no light upon another; the
groping inquiry must begin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalise,
but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not
one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable of
tragedy, slipped out of life with odd little laughs and apologies for
having stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not rise to
the occasion, or realise the great mystery which all agree must await
her; it only seemed to her that she was quite done up--more done up
than ever before; that she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and
that, unless something changed, she would soon feel nothing. Her spare
strength she devoted to plans: could not Margaret take some steamer
expeditions? were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried
herself about Helen's absence, and also that she should be the cause of
Helen's return. The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural,
and perhaps hers was an average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret
saw Death stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death may
contain, the process can be trivial and hideous.

"Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes."

"Helen won't be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she
can only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon
as you are well."

"How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--"

"Yes, dear?"

"Can he spare you?"

Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret
said so.

Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power
took hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned,
without emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of
danger.

"Margaret--important," it went on: "I should like you to have some
companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder."

"I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder."

"But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen."

"I have Tibby, Aunt Juley."

"No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need.
Really, Helen is odd."

"Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret.

"Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at
once?"

"No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the
least balance."

That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret's voice trembled
as she made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister's behaviour.
It may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stay away eight
months argues that the heart is awry as well as the head. A sick-bed
could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a
glimpse at her aunt, she would retire into her nebulous life behind some
poste restante. She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and
infrequent; she had no wants and no curiosity. And it was all put down
to poor Henry's account! Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too
infamous to be greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid, and, to her
alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth of morbidity
back in Helen's life for nearly four years. The flight from Oniton;
the unbalanced patronage of the Basts; the explosion of grief up on
the Downs--all connected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips had
kissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox had feared
that they might kiss again. Foolishly--the real danger was reaction.
Reaction against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her life until she was
scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. What hope was there
for her as an old woman?

The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed she became. For many
months she had put the subject away, but it was too big to be slighted
now. There was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen's actions to be
governed by a tiny mishap, such as may happen to any young man or
woman? Can human nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? The
blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital. It propagated
itself where graver intercourse lay barren; it was stronger than
sisterly intimacy, stronger than reason or books. In one of her moods
Helen had confessed that she still "enjoyed" it in a certain sense.
Paul had faded, but the magic of his caress endured. And where there is
enjoyment of the past there may also be reaction--propagation at both
ends.

Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such seed-beds, and
we without power to choose the seed. But man is an odd, sad creature as
yet, intent on pilfering the earth, and heedless of the growths within
himself. He cannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it to the
specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner to be eaten by a
steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to digest his own soul. Margaret
and Helen have been more patient, and it is suggested that Margaret
has succeeded--so far as success is yet possible. She does understand
herself, she has some rudimentary control over her own growth. Whether
Helen has succeeded one cannot say.

The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen's letter arrived. She had posted
it at Munich, and would be in London herself on the morrow. It was a
disquieting letter, though the opening was affectionate and sane.


"DEAREST MEG,

"Give Helen's love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that I love, and have loved
her ever since I can remember. I shall be in London Thursday.

"My address will be care of the bankers. I have not yet settled on a
hotel, so write or wire to me there and give me detailed news. If Aunt
Juley is much better, or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good
my coming down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not come.
I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am living abroad at present, and
want to get back as quickly as possible. Will you please tell me where
our furniture is? I should like to take out one or two books; the rest
are for you.

"Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather a tiresome letter,
but all letters are from your loving

"HELEN."


It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to tell a lie. If
she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in danger her sister would come.
Unhealthiness is contagious. We cannot be in contact with those who are
in a morbid state without ourselves deteriorating. To "act for the best"
might do Helen good, but would do herself harm, and, at the risk of
disaster, she kept her colours flying a little longer. She replied that
their aunt was much better, and awaited developments.

Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he was a pleasanter
companion than before. Oxford had done much for him. He had lost his
peevishness, and could hide his indifference to people and his interest
in food. But he had not grown more human. The years between eighteen and
twenty-two, so magical for most, were leading him gently from boyhood to
middle age. He had never known young-manliness, that quality which warms
the heart till death, and gives Mr. Wilcox an imperishable charm. He
was frigid, through no fault of his own, and without cruelty. He thought
Helen wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was for him what
a scene behind footlights is for most people. He had only one suggestion
to make, and that was characteristic.

"Why don't you tell Mr. Wilcox?"

"About Helen?"

"Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing."

"He would do all he could, but--"

"Oh, you know best. But he is practical."

It was the student's belief in experts. Margaret demurred for one or two
reasons. Presently Helen's answer came. She sent a telegram requesting
the address of the furniture, as she would now return at once. Margaret
replied, "Certainly not; meet me at the bankers' at four." She and Tibby
went up to London. Helen was not at the bankers', and they were refused
her address. Helen had passed into chaos.

Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all that she had left,
and never had he seemed more unsubstantial.

"Tibby love, what next?"

He replied: "It is extraordinary."

"Dear, your judgment's often clearer than mine. Have you any notion
what's at the back?"

"None, unless it's something mental."

"Oh--that!" said Margaret. "Quite impossible." But the suggestion had
been uttered, and in a few minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else
explained. And London agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and
she saw it for what it really is--a caricature of infinity. The familiar
barriers, the streets along which she moved, the houses between which
she had made her little journeys for so many years, became negligible
suddenly. Helen seemed one with grimy trees and the traffic and the
slowly-flowing slabs of mud. She had accomplished a hideous act of
renunciation and returned to the One. Margaret's own faith held firm.
She knew the human soul will be merged, if it be merged at all, with the
stars and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister had been going amiss for
many years. It was symbolic the catastrophe should come now, on a London
afternoon, while rain fell slowly.

Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He might know of some paths
in the chaos that were hidden from them, and she determined to take
Tibby's advice and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must call at
his office. He could not well make it worse. She went for a few moments
into St. Paul's, whose dome stands out of the welter so bravely, as
if preaching the gospel of form. But within, St. Paul's is as its
surroundings--echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, invisible mosaics,
wet footmarks, crossing and recrossing the floor. Si monumentum
requiris, circumspice; it points us back to London. There was no hope of
Helen here.

Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had expected. He was
overjoyed to see her back from Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of
a new trouble. When they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby
and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it was "just like Helen"
to lead her relatives a dance.

"That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But why should it be
just like Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so queer, and to grow
queerer?"

"Don't ask me. I'm a plain man of business. I live and let live. My
advice to you both is, don't worry. Margaret, you've got black marks
again under your eyes. You know that's strictly forbidden. First
your aunt--then your sister. No, we aren't going to have it. Are we,
Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I'll give you some tea, and then you go
straight to Ducie Street. I can't have my girl looking as old as her
husband."

"All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby.

Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don't suppose I ever
shall." He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family,
while the fire flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to
her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her.

"Margaret's point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad."

Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round.

"Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all? We
are again in trouble."

"I'm afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less,
you know, in these days."

"The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic
lucidity. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and
will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address.
She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless.
There are other facts, but these are the most striking."

"She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry.

"Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown.

"Well, my dear, how am I to know?"

A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that
Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed
that much in her, surely."

"Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together."

"No, Henry--can't you see?--I don't mean that."

She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid
and attentive, he was watching the scene.

"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace
it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she
cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There's no possible excuse
for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that
she is not well. 'Mad' is too terrible a word, but she is not well.
I shall never believe it. I shouldn't discuss my sister with you if I
thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."

Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly
definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to
it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the
pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was
seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but
meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And
the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning
as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.

"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That's the problem, isn't it?
She has got to see a doctor."

"For all I know she has seen one already."

"Yes, yes; don't interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently.
The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who
had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the
natives for a few bottles of gin. "I've got it," he said at last. "It's
perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We'll send her down to Howards End."

"How will you do that?"

"After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you
can meet her there."

"But, Henry, that's just what she won't let me do. It's part of
her--whatever it is--never to see me."

"Of course you won't tell her you're going. When she is there, looking
at the cases, you'll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so
much the better. But there'll be the motor round the corner, and we can
run her to a specialist in no time."

Margaret shook her head. "It's quite impossible."

"Why?"

"It doesn't seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very
tippy plan."

"It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It's not
the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It
would do splendidly for other people, whom I don't blame."

"But Helen doesn't talk," said Tibby. "That's our whole difficulty. She
won't talk your particular language, and on that account you think she's
ill."

"No, Henry; it's sweet of you, but I couldn't."

"I see," he said; "you have scruples."

"I suppose so."

"And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You
could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And
scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope;
but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--"

"I deny it's madness."

"You said just now--"

"It's madness when I say it, but not when you say it."

Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No
education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do
you want me to help you or not?"

"Not in that way."

"Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--"

Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep
Howards End out of it," he said.

"Why, Charles?"

Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous
distance, a salutation had passed between them.

"The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don't
want any more mess."

"Who's 'we'?" asked his father. "My boy, pray who's 'we'?"

"I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be
intruding."

By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her
husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter
to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair,
flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without
rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret
joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her
husband's dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but
could be seen on Monday next at 3 P.M., when a charwoman would be in
attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen
would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to
lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the garden.

After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can't have this sort
of behaviour, my boy. Margaret's too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind
for her."

Charles made no answer.

"Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?"

"No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon."

"How?"

"Don't ask me."

 Sadly, poor Aunt Juley is in bad health - this isn't actually entirely a surprise, but it's unfortunate nonetheless. She has pneumonia, and Tibby and Margaret go to Swanage to look after her. They send for Helen. Aunt Juley is in a bad state, and Margaret worries that she will die. Helen says she can only come to see Aunt Juley, and must return as soon as she's better - she can't stay and hang out in England, for some reason. Aunt Juley, thankfully, doesn't actually die. Nobody can figure out why Helen didn't come back when her aunt was at risk. It's a mystery. Margaret doesn't want to admit it, but she's really worried about Helen. It seems that Helen's dislike for Henry is the cause of her staying away. Margaret worries that this hatred of the Wilcoxes has driven her a little batty. Margaret grows more and more worried, as all humans do - once we get a thought in our heads, it's impossible not to let it get out of hand. Helen sends a letter saying that she'll be in London soon, but that she will only come to Swanage if Aunt Juley is absolutely in dire condition. She wants to know where their stuff is so she can reclaim some of her books. The letter is affectionate, but totally weird. Margaret wants to lie and tell Helen that Aunt Juley really needs her, but she ends up telling the truth. Tibby, who's grown up a bit and has become rather a pleasant but cold human being , thinks she's done the right thing. Furthermore, he thinks Margaret should tell Mr. Wilcox, but she doesn't want to. Margaret tries to get Helen to meet with her at their bank, but Helen doesn't show up. Margaret feels desperate, and gives in and asks Henry what to do. Mr. Wilcox at first just says it's just like Helen to act all crazy and lead them on a wild goose chase, but Margaret is dissatisfied by this answer. Tibby steps in to tell Mr. Wilcox that they're worried that Helen has gone insane. This alarms Charles. Tibby calmly relates the facts: Helen is evading her siblings at every turn, but refuses to tell them why. Margaret emphasizes the fact that they don't think Helen is well - she may not be totally mad, but she's definitely not OK. This gets Mr. Wilcox's attention. Sick people are a different matter; he immediately takes an interest and comes up with a devious plan to trick Helen into coming to Howards End under the pretense of getting her books, where Henry and Margaret will ambush her. Margaret resists, but is won over by Tibby and Henry, who both think it's the right thing to do. Charles is the only one who doesn't agree, as he doesn't want Howards End involved. Margaret also still has misgivings, but she does as Mr. Wilcox says. The meeting is planned for Monday at 3. Charles still has a very bad feeling about all of this. So do we.

