Howards End

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