Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  “I know — no, I don’t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!”

  “But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it.”

  “Ah, that greengage-tree,” cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. “Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers.”

  Margaret interrupted her. “I have got it,” she announced.

  “‘Tea, tea, coffee, tea,

  Or chocolaritee.’

  “That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild.”

  “Tibby is moderately a dear now,” said Helen.

  “There! I knew you’d say that in the end. Of course he’s a dear.”

  A bell rang.

  “Listen! what’s that?”

  Helen said, “Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege.”

  “What nonsense — listen!”

  And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind — the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them — the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, “It is always Meg.” They looked into each other’s eyes. The inner life had paid.

  Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned.

  “Little boy, what do you want?”

  “Please, I am the milk.”

  “Did Miss Avery send you?” said Margaret, rather sharply.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Then take it back and say we require no milk.” While she called to Helen, “No, it’s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one.”

  “But I like milk,” cried Helen. “Why send it away?”

  “Do you? Oh, very well. But we’ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can.”

  “Please, I’m to call in the morning for the can,” said the boy.

  “The house will be locked up then.”

  “In the morning would I bring eggs too?”

  “Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?”

  The child hung his head.

  “Well, run away and do it again.”

  “Nice little boy,” whispered Helen. “I say, what’s your name? Mine’s Helen.”

  “Tom.”

  That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return.

  “Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we’ve another called Tibby.”

  “Mine are lop-eareds,” replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit.

  “You’re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again. — Isn’t he charming?”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Margaret. “He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because I probably agree with you.”

  “It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live.”

  “I do agree,” said Helen, as she sipped the milk. “But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago.”

  “Meaning that I was dead. I felt it.”

  “Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can’t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I’ve a startling idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “Drink some milk to steady you.”

  Margaret obeyed.

  “No, I won’t tell you yet,” said Helen, “because you may laugh or be angry. Let’s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing.”

  They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. “Then one would see really.” She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: “About my idea. Couldn’t you and I camp out in this house for the night?”

  “I don’t think we could well do that,” said Margaret.

  “Here are beds, tables, towels— “

  “I know; but the house isn’t supposed to be slept in, and Henry’s suggestion was— “

  “I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let’s!”

  “But, Helen, my pet,” said Margaret, “we can’t without getting Henry’s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn’t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate.”

  “Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It’s a moon.”

  Margaret hesitated. “I feel Charles wouldn’t like it,” she said at last. “Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley’s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it’s his mother’s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for — not Charles.”

  “I know he won’t like it,” said Helen. “But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, ‘And she even spent the night at Howards End’?”

  “How do you know you’ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before.”

  “Because my plans— “

  “ — which you change in a moment.”

  “Then because my life is great and theirs are little,” said Helen, taking fire. “I know of things they can’t know of, and so do you. We know that there’s poetry. We know that there’s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home.”

  “It would be lovely to have you once more alone,” said Margaret. “It may be a chance in a thousand.”

  “Yes, and we could talk.” She dropped her voice. “It won’t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm — honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?”

  “I needn’t say how much it would mean to me.”

  “Then let us.”

  “It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?”

  “Oh, we don’t want leave.”

  But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry — perhaps on account of them — she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night’s lodging — and they demanded no more — need not involve the discussion of general principles.

  “Charles may say no,” grumbled Helen.

  “We shan’t consult him.”

  “Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave.”

  It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen’s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.

  “Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing.”

  “Not a thing, only an ending,” said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in
on Margaret again as soon as she left the house.

  She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man’s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been “told,” ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby’s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone.

  “But the diddums can’t listen; he isn’t nine months old,” she pleaded.

  “That’s not what I was saying,” retorted her father-in-law.

  Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret.

  “Is it what we feared?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  “Dear girl,” he began, “there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through.” Margaret bent her head. “I am obliged to question you on subjects we’d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions — We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman.”

  All Margaret’s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind.

  “I see that you feel as I felt when — My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?”

  Margaret stammered a “No.”

  There was an appalling silence.

  “Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End.”

  “One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer.”

  She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus.

  “Take your time,” he counselled her. “Remember that this is far worse for me than for you.”

  She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said slowly: “Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer’s name.”

  “Would she not tell you?”

  “I never even asked her who seduced her,” said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully.

  “That is singular.” Then he changed his mind. “Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn’t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren’t fit for it. I wish I hadn’t taken you.”

  Margaret answered, “I like to stand, if you don’t mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills.”

  “As you like.”

  “Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?”

  “Next you must tell me whether you have gathered anything. I have often noticed your insight, dear. I only wish my own was as good. You may have guessed something, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest hint would help us.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “I thought it best to ring up Charles.”

  “That was unnecessary,” said Margaret, growing warmer. “This news will give Charles disproportionate pain.”

  “He has at once gone to call on your brother.”

  “That too was unnecessary.”

  “Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don’t think that I and my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen’s interests that we are acting. It is still not too late to save her name.”

  Then Margaret hit out for the first time. “Are we to make her seducer marry her?” she asked.

  “If possible, yes.”

  “But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has heard of such cases.”

  “In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed within an inch of his life.”

  So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What had tempted her to imperil both of their lives. Henry’s obtuseness had saved her as well as himself. Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: “May I ask you my question now?”

  “Certainly, my dear.”

  “To-morrow Helen goes to Munich— “

  “Well, possibly she is right.”

  “Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End.”

  It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed to warn him that they were far more important than he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were a business proposition.

  “Why Howards End?” he said at last. “Would she not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?”

  Margaret hastened to give him reasons. “It is an odd request, but you know what Helen is and what women in her state are.” He frowned, and moved irritably. “She has the idea that one night in your house would give her pleasure and do her good. I think she’s right. Being one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, ‘A beautiful ending.’”

  “She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact.”

  “Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it.”

  “I don’t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes — possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you’d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn’t you? and I’d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house,” he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point— “because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don’t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold.”

  “Leave it that you don’t see,” cried Margaret. “Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to.”

  Then he surprised her — a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. “If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps.”

  “Well?” said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. “And suppose we don’t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm.”

  Again the irritated gesture.

  “No, Henry,” she panted, receding. “I didn’t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow— “

  “Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?”

  “She cannot be left alone.”

  “That’s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles.”

  “I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him.”

  “Margaret — my Margaret.”

  “What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all.”

  “As the future owner of Howards End,” said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, “I should say that it did concern Charles.”

  “In what way? Will Helen’s condition depreciate the property?”

  “My dear, you are forgetting yourself.”

  “I think you yourself recommended plain speaking.”

  They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now.
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  “Helen commands my sympathy,” said Henry. “As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did.”

  She controlled herself for the last time. “No, let us go back to Helen’s request,” she said. “It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house — a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough.”

  “As I have actually been forgiven — ?”

  “Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,” said Margaret. “Answer my question.”

  Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: “I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once.”

  “You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?”

  “You have not been yourself all day,” said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured.

  “Not any more of this!” she cried. “You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress — I forgave you. My sister has a lover — you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel — oh, contemptible! — a man who insults his wife when she’s alive and cants with her memory when she’s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can’t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I’ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I’ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are — muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don’t repent. Only say to yourself, ‘What Helen has done, I’ve done.’”