Howards End

Henry, never raising his eyes. "This is a terrible business, an appalling business. It’s doctor’s orders. Open the door."
    "Forgive me, but I will not."
    "I don’t agree."
    Margaret was silent.
    "This business is as broad as it’s long," contributed the doctor. "We had better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you."
    "Quite so," said Henry.
    "I do not need you in the least," said Margaret.
    The two men looked at each other anxiously.
    "No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement."
    "Margaret, Margaret!"
    "Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?"
    Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support, for there was trouble ahead.
    "It all turns on affection now," said Margaret. "Affection. Don’t you see?" Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with her finger. "Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much. Mr. Mansbridge doesn’t know her. That’s all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives rights. Put that down in your note–book, Mr. Mansbridge. It’s a useful formula."
    Henry told her to be calm.
    "You don’t know what you want yourselves," said Margaret, folding her arms. "For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I’ll stand here all the day sooner."
    "Mansbridge," said Henry in a low voice, "perhaps not now."
    The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went back into the car.
    "Now, Henry, you," she said gently. None of her bitterness had been directed at him. "Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go."
    He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him.
    "I shall soon find you down at Dolly’s," she called, as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for there was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she opened the door. "Oh, my darling!" she said. "My darling, forgive me." Helen was standing in the hall.

CHAPTER XXXVII
    Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said:
    "Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want."
    "I told you nothing that was true."
    "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?"
    "Helen, you wouldn’t think I’d invent that?"
    "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after this."
    "We thought it was illness, but even then—I haven’t behaved worthily."
    Helen selected another book.
    "I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me?"
    She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed—that want of confidence that is the work of the devil.
    "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do."
    "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me."
    "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can’t go through a great deal of—"—she left out the noun—"without planning one’s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known."
    "But why didn’t you tell me, dearest?"
    "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait."
    "I believe you would never have told me."
    "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."
    Margaret glanced out of the window.
    "By