Howards End

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