Part 57 (1/2)
”Come away from those books,” called Margaret. ”Helen, do talk to me.”
”I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can't go through a great deal of--”--she left out the noun--”without planning one's actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known.”
”But why didn't you tell me, dearest?”
”Yes,” replied Helen judicially. ”I might have, but decided to wait.”
”I believe you would never have told me.”
”Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich.”
Margaret glanced out of the window.
”By 'we' I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone.”
”I have not heard of Monica.”
”You wouldn't have. She's an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through.”
”You are very fond of her, then.”
”She has been extraordinarily sensible with me.”
Margaret guessed at Monica's type--”Italiano Inglesiato” they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need!
”You must not think that we shall never meet,” said Helen, with a measured kindness. ”I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven't understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn't to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won't be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England.”
”Helen, you've not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN'T talk like this to me if you had.”
”Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?” She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: ”Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?”
”Series of mistakes.”
”And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked.”
”All.”
”Who lives here, then?”
”No one.”
”I suppose you are letting it, though.”
”The house is dead,” said Margaret, with a frown. ”Why worry on about it?”
”But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life.
I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn't the feel of a dead house.
The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilc.o.xes' own things.”