Howards End E. M. Forster (best summer reads of all time .TXT) 📖

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 suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle.”

“Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, today. Still, he wanted them all to come. It has to be.”

“Why does he want them?”

Margaret did not answer.

“Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry.”

“You’d be odd if you didn’t,” said Margaret.

“I usen’t to.”

“Usen’t!” She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were building up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard was dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One usen’t always to see clearly before that time. It was different now.

“I like Henry because he does worry.”

“And he likes you because you don’t.”

Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands. After a time she said: “About love,” a transition less abrupt than it appeared.

Margaret never stopped working.

“I mean a woman’s love for a man. I supposed I should hang my life on to that once, and was driven up and down and about as if something was worrying through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem cured. That Herr Förstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writing about, must be a noble character, but he doesn’t see that I shall never marry him or anyone. It isn’t shame or mistrust of myself. I simply couldn’t. I’m ended. I used to be so dreamy about a man’s love as a girl, and think that for good or evil love must be the great thing. But it hasn’t been; it has been itself a dream. Do you agree?”

“I do not agree. I do not.”

“I ought to remember Leonard as my lover,” said Helen, stepping down into the field. “I tempted him, and killed him, and it is surely the least I can do. I would like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on such an afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no good pretending. I am forgetting him.” Her eyes filled with tears. “How nothing seems to match⁠—how, my darling, my precious⁠—” She broke off. “Tommy!”

“Yes, please?”

“Baby’s not to try and stand.⁠—There’s something wanting in me. I see you loving Henry, and understanding him better daily, and I know that death wouldn’t part you in the least. But I⁠—Is it some awful, appalling, criminal defect?”

Margaret silenced her. She said: “It is only that people are far more different than is pretended. All over the world men and women are worrying because they cannot develop as they are supposed to develop. Here and there they have the matter out, and it comforts them. Don’t fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you have; love your child. I do not love children. I am thankful to have none. I can play with their beauty and charm, but that is all⁠—nothing real, not one scrap of what there ought to be. And others⁠—others go farther still, and move outside humanity altogether. A place, as well as a person, may catch the glow. Don’t you see that all this leads to comfort in the end? It is part of the battle against sameness. Differences, eternal differences, planted by God in a single family, so that there may always be colour; sorrow perhaps, but colour in the daily grey. Then I can’t have you worrying about Leonard. Don’t drag in the personal when it will not