Chapter Chapter 34 · It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley’s health had been bad all

. It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley’s health had been bad all

the 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 generalize, 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 realize 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 could 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 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 stop 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 idée 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 someone, 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 realize 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 up 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.”