Howards End

walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down."
    "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass."
    The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry’s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly.
    "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up.
    "I have something to tell you," he said gently.
    She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.
    "I don’t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child."
    "Where are you going?"
    "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill."
    "After the inquest?"
    "Yes."
    "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?"
    "Yes, heart disease."
    "No, my dear; manslaughter."
    Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive.
    "Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don’t know what to do—what to do. I’m broken—I’m ended."
    No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years' imprisonment. Then Henry’s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest—she took him down to recruit at Howards End.

CHAPTER XLIV
    Tom’s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. "I haven’t any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?"
    Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?" she asked.
    "Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?"
    "I haven’t the least notion," answered Margaret, and took up her work again.
    "Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?"
    Tom held out his arms.
    "That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret.
    "He is fond of baby. That’s why he does it!" was Helen’s answer. "They’re going to be lifelong friends."
    "Starting at the ages of six and one?"
    "Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom."
    "It may be a greater thing for baby."
    Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the wheat. These little events would become part of her year after year. Every summer she would fear lest the well should give out, every winter lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might blow the wych–elm down and bring the end of all things, and so she could not read or talk during a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and her sister were sitting on the remains of Evie’s rockery, where the lawn merged into the field.
    "What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can they be doing inside?" Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of the cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell–holes.
    "I wish Henry was out to enjoy this," said Helen. "This lovely weather and to be shut up in the house! It’s very hard."
    "It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay fever is his chief objection against living here, but he thinks it worth while."
    "Meg, is or isn’t he ill? I can’t make out."
    "Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and noticed nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a thing."
    "I