Howards End

home, colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning mists.

CHAPTER XXIX
    "Henry dear—" was her greeting.
    He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the Times. His sister–in–law was packing. Margaret knelt by him and took the paper from him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face where it had been, she looked up in his eyes.
    "Henry dear, look at me. No, I won’t have you shirking. Look at me. There. That’s all."
    "You’re referring to last evening," he said huskily. "I have released you from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won’t. No, I won’t. A thousand times no. I’m a bad lot, and must be left at that."
    Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It was not true repentance.
    "Leave it where you will, boy. It’s not going to trouble us; I know what I’m talking about, and it will make no difference."
    "No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; they had read books that are suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though she had determined against one, there was a scene, all the same. It was somehow imperative.
    "I am unworthy of you," he began. "Had I been worthy, I should not have released you from your engagement. I know what I am talking about. I can’t bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it."
    She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, rising to his feet, went on: "You, with your sheltered life, and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and your sister, and women like you—I say, how can you guess the temptations that lie round a man?"
    "It is difficult for us," said Margaret; "but if we are worth marrying, we do guess."
    "Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter experience, and yet you say it makes 'no difference.'"
    "Not to me."
    He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes. Being the last down, she turned out the spirit–lamp that kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew that Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing out the gulf between the male soul and the female, and she did not desire to hear him on this point.
    "Did Helen come?" she asked.
    He shook his head.
    "But that won’t do at all, at all! We don’t want her gossiping with Mrs. Bast."
    "Good God! no!" he exclaimed, suddenly natural. Then he caught himself up. "Let them gossip, my game’s up, though I thank you for your unselfishness—little as my thanks are worth."
    "Didn’t she send me a message or anything?"
    "I heard of none."
    "Would you ring the bell, please?"
    "What to do?"
    "Why, to inquire."
    He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal. Margaret poured herself out some coffee. The butler came, and said that Miss Schlegel had slept at the George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to the George?
    "I’ll go, thank you," said Margaret, and dismissed him.
    "It is no good," said Henry. "Those things leak out; you cannot stop a story once it has started. I have known cases of other men—I despised them once, I thought that I’m different, I shall never be tempted. Oh, Margaret—" He came and sat down near her, improvising emotion. She could not bear to listen to him. "We fellows all come to grief once in our time. Will you believe that? There are moments when the strongest man—'Let him who standeth, take heed lest he fall.' That’s true, isn’t it? If you knew all, you would excuse me. I was far from good influences—far even from England. I was very, very lonely, and longed for a woman’s voice. That’s enough. I have told you too much already for you to forgive me now."
    "Yes, that’s enough, dear."
    "I have"—he lowered his voice—"I have been through hell."
    Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he suffered tortures of remorse, or had it been, "There! that’s over. Now for respectable life again"? The latter, if she read him rightly.