Chapter Chapter 40 · Leonard—he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that

. Leonard—he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that

evening he did not count for much. The foot of the tree was in shadow,

since the moon was still hidden behind the house. But above, to right,

to left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard

seemed not a man, but a cause.

Perhaps it was Helen’s way of falling in love—a curious way to

Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henry were yet imprinted

with his image. Helen forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed

her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts,

but had she ever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, having

lost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship?

Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was Helen’s evening.

Troubles enough lay ahead of her—the loss of friends and of social

advantages, the agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is even

yet not a matter of common knowledge. For the present let the moon

shine brightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dying away

from the gale of the day, and let the earth, who brings increase, bring

peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen. She could not assess

her trespass by any moral code; it was everything or nothing. Morality

can tell us that murder is worse than stealing, and group most sins in

an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. The surer its

pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be that morality is not

speaking. Christ was evasive when they questioned Him. It is those that

cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone.

This was Helen’s evening—won at what cost, and not to be marred by the

sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word.

“One isolates,” said Helen slowly. “I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the

other forces that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was

full of pity, and almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox

only, and so, when your letters came—”

“I need never have written them,” sighed Margaret. “They never shielded

Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!”

“I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts.”

“Looking back, that was wrong of me.”

“Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save

the man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But

we both thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of

his callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time—and Mrs. Bast

was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked for a long time to

Leonard—I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have warned me

I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to you for an

explanation. He said that he guessed the explanation—he knew of it, and

you mustn’t know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one must know;

it was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end we were Mr.

Bast and Miss Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank

with me when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him

in two ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very

lonely myself. He is not to blame. He would have gone on worshipping

me. I want never to see him again, though it sounds appalling. I wanted

to give him money and feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known

about these things!”

She laid her face against the tree.

“The little, too, that is known about growth! Both times it was

loneliness, and the night, and panic afterwards. Did Leonard grow out

of Paul?”

Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was she that her

attention had actually wandered to the teeth—the teeth that had been

thrust into the tree’s bark to medicate it. From where she sat she

could see them gleam. She had been trying to count them. “Leonard is a

better growth than madness,” she said. “I was afraid that you would

react against Paul until you went over the verge.”

“I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady now. I shan’t ever

like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even speak kindly about him, but all

that blinding hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any

more. I understand how you married him, and you will now be very

happy.”

Margaret did not reply.

“Yes,” repeated Helen, her voice growing more tender, “I do at last

understand.”

“Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our little movements.”

“Because in death—I agree.”

“Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are only fragments of that

woman’s mind. She knows everything. She is everything. She is the

house, and the tree that leans over it. People have their own deaths as

well as their own lives, and even if there is nothing beyond death, we

shall differ in our nothingness. I cannot believe that knowledge such

as hers will perish with knowledge such as mine. She knew about

realities. She knew when people were in love, though she was not in the

room. I don’t doubt that she knew when Henry deceived her.”

“Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox,” called a voice.

“Oh, good-night, Miss Avery.”

“Why should Miss Avery work for us?” Helen murmured.

“Why, indeed?”

Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the hedge that divided it

from the farm. An old gap, which Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had

reappeared, and her track through the dew followed the path that he had

turfed over, when he improved the garden and made it possible for

games.

“This is not quite our house yet,” said Helen. “When Miss Avery called,

I felt we are only a couple of tourists.”

“We shall be that everywhere, and for ever.”

“But affectionate tourists—”

“But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home.”

“I can’t pretend very long,” said Helen. “Sitting under this tree one

forgets, but I know that tomorrow I shall see the moon rise out of

Germany. Not all your goodness can alter the facts of the case. Unless

you will come with me.”

Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she had grown so fond

of England that to leave it was a real grief. Yet what detained her? No

doubt Henry would pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and

muddling into a ripe old age. But what was the good? She had just as

soon vanish from his mind.

“Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get on with your

Monica?”

“You would not, but I am serious in asking you.”

“Still, no more plans now. And no more reminiscences.”

They were silent for a little. It was Helen’s evening.

The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made

music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but

its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled

again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life.

Life passed. The tree nestled again.

“Sleep now,” said Margaret.

The peace of the country was entering into her. It has no commerce with

memory, and little with hope. Least of all is it concerned with the

hopes of the next five minutes. It is the peace of the present, which

passes understanding. Its murmur came “now,” and “now” once more as

they trod the gravel, and “now,” as the moonlight fell upon their

father’s sword. They passed upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endless

iterations fell asleep. The house had enshadowed the tree at first, but

as the moon rose higher the two disentangled, and were clear for a few

moments at midnight. Margaret awoke and looked into the garden. How

incomprehensible that Leonard Bast should have won her this night of

peace! Was he also part of Mrs. Wilcox’s mind?