Howards End
liked her, and began to think that his original impression was true,
and that her sister did not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely.
She, who gave away so much, was receiving too little. Leonard was
pleased to think that he could spare her vexation by holding his tongue
and concealing what he knew about Mr. Wilcox. Jacky had announced her
discovery when he fetched her from the lawn. After the first shock, he
did not mind for himself. By now he had no illusions about his wife, and
this was only one new stain on the face of a love that had never been
pure. To keep perfection perfect, that should be his ideal, if the
future gave him time to have ideals. Helen, and Margaret for Helen’s
sake, must not know.
Helen disconcerted him by turning the conversation to his wife. “Mrs.
Bast--does she ever say ‘I’?” she asked, half mischievously, and then,
“Is she very tired?”
“It’s better she stops in her room,” said Leonard.
“Shall I sit up with her?”
“No, thank you; she does not need company.”
“Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?”
Leonard blushed up to his eyes.
“You ought to know my ways by now. Does that question offend you?”
“No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no.”
“Because I love honesty. Don’t pretend your marriage has been a happy
one. You and she can have nothing in common.”
He did not deny it, but said shyly: “I suppose that’s pretty obvious;
but Jacky never meant to do anybody any harm. When things went wrong,
or I heard things, I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back,
it’s more mine. I needn’t have married her, but as I have I must stick
to her and keep her.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Nearly three years.”
“What did your people say?”
“They will not have anything to do with us. They had a sort of family
council when they heard I was married, and cut us off altogether.”
Helen began to pace up and down the room. “My good boy, what a mess!”
she said gently. “Who are your people?”
He could answer this. His parents, who were dead, had been in trade; his
sisters had married commercial travellers; his brother was a lay-reader.
“And your grandparents?”
Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful up to now. “They
were just nothing at all,” he said “agricultural labourers and that
sort.”
“So! From which part?”
“Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother’s father--he, oddly enough, came
from these parts round here.”
“From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My mother’s people were
Lancashire. But why do your brother and your sisters object to Mrs.
Bast?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can bear anything you tell
me, and the more you tell the more I shall be able to help. Have they
heard anything against her?”
He was silent.
“I think I have guessed now,” said Helen very gravely.
“I don’t think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not.”
“We must be honest, even over these things. I have guessed. I am
frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does not make the least difference
to me. I shall feel just the same to both of you. I blame, not your wife
for these things, but men.”
Leonard left it at that--so long as she did not guess the man. She stood
at the window and slowly pulled up the blinds. The hotel looked over a
dark square. The mists had begun. When she turned back to him her eyes
were shining. “Don’t you worry,” he pleaded. “I can’t bear that. We
shall be all right if I get work. If I could only get work--something
regular to do. Then it wouldn’t be so bad again. I don’t trouble after
books as I used. I can imagine that with regular work we should settle
down again. It stops one thinking.”
“Settle down to what?”
“Oh, just settle down.”
“And that’s to be life!” said Helen, with a catch in her throat. “How
can you, with all the beautiful things to see and do--with music--with
walking at night--”
“Walking is well enough when a man’s in work,” he answered. “Oh, I did
talk a lot of nonsense once, but there’s nothing like a bailiff in the
house to drive it out of you. When I saw him fingering my Ruskins and
Stevensons, I seemed to see life straight and real, and it isn’t a
pretty sight. My books are back again, thanks to you, but they’ll never
be the same to me again, and I shan’t ever again think night in the
woods is wonderful.”
“Why not?” asked Helen, throwing up the window.
“Because I see one must have money.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“I wish I was wrong, but--the clergyman--he has money of his own, or
else he’s paid; the poet or the musician--just the same; the tramp--he’s
no different. The tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, and is paid
for with other people’s money. Miss Schlegel, the real thing’s money, and
all the rest is a dream.”
“You’re still wrong. You’ve forgotten Death.”
Leonard could not understand.
“If we lived forever, what you say would be true. But we have to die,
we have to leave life presently. Injustice and greed would be the real
thing if we lived for ever. As it is, we must hold to other things,
because Death is coming. I love Death--not morbidly, but because He
explains. He shows me the emptiness of Money. Death and Money are the
eternal foes. Not Death and Life. Never mind what lies behind Death, Mr.
Bast, but be sure that the poet and the musician and the tramp will be
happier in it than the man who has never learnt to say, ‘I am I.’”
“I wonder.”
“We are all in a mist--I know, but I can help you this far--men like
the Wilcoxes are deeper in the mist than any. Sane, sound Englishmen!
building up empires, levelling all the world into what they call common
sense. But mention Death to them and they’re offended, because Death’s
really Imperial, and He cries out against them for ever.”
“I am as afraid of Death as any one.”
“But not of the idea of Death.”
“But what is the difference?”
“Infinite difference,” said Helen, more gravely than before.
Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense of great things
sweeping out of the shrouded night. But he could not receive them,
because his heart was still full of little things. As the lost umbrella
had spoilt the concert at Queen’s Hall, so the lost situation was
obscuring the diviner harmonies now. Death, Life, and Materialism were
fine words, but would Mr. Wilcox take him on as a clerk? Talk as one
would, Mr. Wilcox was king of this world, the superman, with his own
morality, whose head remained in the clouds.
“I must be stupid,” he said apologetically.
While to Helen the paradox became clearer and clearer. “Death destroys a
man: the idea of Death saves him.” Behind the coffins and the skeletons
that stay the vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that
is great in us responds to it. Men of the world may recoil from the
charnel-house that they will one day enter, but Love knows better. Death
is his foe, but his peer, and in their age-long struggle the thews of
Love have been strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is no
one who can stand against him.
“So never give in,” continued the girl, and restated again and again the
vague yet convincing plea that the Invisible lodges against the Visible.
Her excitement grew as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard
to the earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted her. Presently
the waitress entered and gave her a letter from Margaret. Another note,
addressed to Leonard, was inside. They read them, listening to the
murmurings of the river.
CHAPTER XXVIII
For many hours Margaret did nothing; then she controlled herself, and
wrote some letters. She was too bruised to speak to Henry; she could
pity him, and even determine to marry him, but as yet all lay too deep
in her heart for speech. On the surface the sense of his degradation was
too strong. She could not command voice or look, and the gentle words
that she forced out through her pen seemed to proceed from some other
person.
“My dearest boy,” she began, “this is not to part us. It is everything
or nothing, and I mean it to be nothing. It happened long before we ever
met, and even if it had happened since, I should be writing the same, I
hope. I do understand.”
But she crossed out “I do understand”; it struck a false note. Henry
could not bear to be understood. She also crossed out, “It is everything
or nothing.” Henry would resent so strong a grasp of the situation. She
must not comment; comment is unfeminine.
“I think that’ll about do,” she thought.
Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was he worth all this
bother? To have yielded to a woman of that sort was everything, yes,
it was, and she could not be his wife. She tried to translate his
temptation into her own language, and her brain reeled. Men must be
different even to want to yield to such a temptation. Her belief in
comradeship was stifled, and she saw life as from that glass saloon on
the Great Western which sheltered male and female alike from the fresh
air. Are the sexes really races, each with its own code of morality, and
their mutual love a mere device of Nature to keep things going? Strip
human intercourse of the proprieties, and is it reduced to this? Her
judgment told her no. She knew that out of Nature’s device we have built
a magic that will win us immortality. Far more mysterious than the call
of sex to sex is the tenderness that we throw into that call; far wider
is the gulf between us and the farmyard than between the farmyard and
the garbage that nourishes it. We are evolving, in ways that Science
cannot measure, to ends that Theology dares not contemplate. “Men
did produce one jewel,” the gods will say, and, saying, will give us
immortality. Margaret knew all this, but for the moment she could not
feel it, and transformed the marriage of Evie and Mr. Cahill into a
carnival of fools, and her own marriage--too miserable to think of that,
she tore up the letter, and then wrote another:
“DEAR MR. BAST,
“I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I promised, and am sorry to
say that he has no vacancy for you.
“Yours truly,
“M. J. SCHLEGEL.”
She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she took less trouble
than she might have done; but her head was aching, and she could not
stop to pick her words:
“DEAR HELEN,
“Give him this. The Basts are no good. Henry found the woman drunk on
the lawn. I am having a room got ready for you here, and will you please
come round at once on getting this? The Basts are not at all the type we
should trouble about. I may go round to them myself in the morning, and
do anything that is fair.
“M.”
In writing this, Margaret felt that she was being practical. Something
might be arranged for the Basts later on, but they must be silenced
for the moment. She hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman
and Helen. She rang the bell for a servant, but no one answered it;
Mr. Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone to bed, and the kitchen was
abandoned to Saturnalia. Consequently she went over to the George
herself. She did not enter the hotel, for discussion would have been
perilous, and, saying that the letter was important, she gave it to the
waitress. As she recrossed the square she saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking
out of the window of the coffee-room, and feared she was already too
late. Her task was not yet over; she ought to tell Henry what she had
done.
This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The night wind had been
rattling the pictures against the wall, and the noise had disturbed him.
“Who’s there?” he called, quite the householder.
Margaret walked in and past him.
“I have asked Helen to sleep,” she said. “She is best here; so don’t
lock the front-door.”
“I thought some one had got in,” said Henry.
“At the same time I told the man that we could do nothing for him. I