Howards End

heads in a note–book, he ran through all the incidents of the Schlegels' campaign: the attempt to compromise his brother, his mother’s legacy, his father’s marriage, the introduction of the furniture, the unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard of the request to sleep at Howards End; that was to be their master–stroke and the opportunity for his. But he already felt that Howards End was the objective, and, though he disliked the house, was determined to defend it.
    Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood above the conventions: his sister had a right to do what she thought right. It is not difficult to stand above the conventions when we leave no hostages among them; men can always be more unconventional than women, and a bachelor of independent means need encounter no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money enough; his ancestors had earned it for him, and if he shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only to move into another. His was the leisure without sympathy—an attitude as fatal as the strenuous; a little cold culture may be raised on it, but no art. His sisters had seen the family danger, and had never forgotten to discount the gold islets that raised them from the sea. Tibby gave all the praise to himself, and so despised the struggling and the submerged.
    Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf between them was economic as well as spiritual. But several facts passed; Charles pressed for them with an impertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand. On what date had Helen gone abroad? To whom? (Charles was anxious to fasten the scandal on Germany.) Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: "I suppose you realise that you are your sister’s protector?"
    "In what sense?"
    "If a man played about with my sister, I’d send a bullet through him, but perhaps you don’t mind."
    "I mind very much," protested Tibby.
    "Who d’ye suspect, then? Speak out man. One always suspects some one."
    "No one. I don’t think so." Involuntarily he blushed. He had remembered the scene in his Oxford rooms.
    "You are hiding something," said Charles. As interviews go, he got the best of this one. "When you saw her last, did she mention any one’s name? Yes or no!" he thundered, so that Tibby started.
    "In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the Basts."
    "Who are the Basts?"
    "People—friends of hers at Evie’s wedding."
    "I don’t remember. But, by great Scott, I do! My aunt told me about some rag–tsag. Was she full of them when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she speak of the man? Or—look here—have you had any dealings with him?"
    Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had betrayed his sister’s confidence; he was not enough interested in human life to see where things will lead to. He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply vexed, not only for the harm he had done Helen, but for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment.
    "I see—you are in his confidence. They met at your rooms. Oh, what a family, what a family! God help the poor pater—s."
    And Tibby found himself alone.

CHAPTER XL
    Leonard—he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that evening he did not count for much. The foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon was still hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause.
    Perhaps it was Helen’s way of falling in love—a curious way to Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henry were yet imprinted with his image. Helen forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, having lost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship?
    Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was Helen’s evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of her—the loss of friends and of social advantages, the agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is not even yet a matter of common knowledge. For the present let the moon shine brightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dying away from the gale of the day, and let the earth, that brings increase, bring peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen.
    She could not assess her trespass by any moral code; it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us that