Howards End - E. M. Forster [129]
"Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was lingering over the furniture.
"There's nothing to tell."
"But your marriage has been happy, Meg?"
"Yes, but I don't feel inclined to talk."
"You feel as I do."
"Not that, but I can't."
"No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying."
Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived.
"Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?"
"You mean that you want to go away from me?"
"I suppose so – dear old lady! it isn't any use. I knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later."
"Certainly, dearest."
"For that is all we can do."
It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen's common sense: Monica had been extraordinarily good for her.
"I am glad to have seen you and the things." She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past.
Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car has gone, and here's your cab."
She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, "Please, lady, a message," and handed her Henry's visiting-card through the bars.
"How did this come?" she asked.
Crane had returned with it almost at once.
She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back for the night to Dolly's. "Il faut dormir sur ce sujet." While Helen was to be found "une comfortable chambre a l'hotel." The final sentence displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles' had only one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest.
"Henry would have done what he could," she interpreted.
Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming.
"This is Mr. Wilcox's house?" she inquired.
"Surely you remember Howards End?"
"Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now."
"Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her own spirits lightening a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it. "She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her house with our things than think of it empty. In consequence here are all the library books. "
"Not all the books. She hasn't unpacked the Art Books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here."
"The sword looks well, though."
"Magnificent."
"Yes, doesn't it?"
"Where's the piano, Meg?"
"I warehoused that in London. Why?"
"Nothing."
"Curious, too, that the carpet fits."
"The carpet's a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful."
"You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There's no carpet there.
They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural.
"Oh, WHAT a place for mother's chiffonier!" cried Helen.
"Look at the chairs, though."
"Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn't it?"
"North-west."
"Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their little backs are quite warm."
"But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just – "
"Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn."
Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it.
"Ye-es. The window's too high."
"Try a drawing-room chair."
"No, I don't like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded.