Howards End

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