Part 65 (2/2)
Margaret had been tending this way all the winter. Leonard's death brought her to the goal. Alas! that Henry should fade away as reality emerged, and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped with his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams.
With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying his gla.s.s with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced age.
He would settle down--though she could not realise this. In her eyes Henry was always moving and causing others to move, until the ends of the earth met. But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle down. What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul to its appropriate Heaven.
Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An eternal future had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches?
And his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers?
Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants pa.s.sed like water, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it.
”Is it the keys that Mr. Wilc.o.x wants?” she asked.
”He didn't say, madam.”
”You haven't any note for me?”
”He didn't say, madam.”
After a moment's thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains.
Henry would probably sell the place now.
She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles's gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoa.r.s.ely: ”I prefer to discuss things with you outside.”
”It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid,” said Margaret.
”Did you get my message?”
”What about?”
”I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you.”
”I am extremely tired,” said Henry, in injured tones. ”I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down.”
”Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the gra.s.s.”
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 sc.r.a.p 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 gra.s.s, 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.”
<script>