Howards End

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 some one, 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 realise 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