第115章

And the other bright spot was his tenderness for Jacky.He pitied her with nobility now--not the contemptuous pity of a man who sticks to a woman through thick and thin.He tried to be less irritable.He wondered what her hungry eyes desired--nothing that she could express,or that he or any man could give her.Would she ever receive the justice that is mercy--the justice for by-products that the world is too busy to bestow?She was fond of flowers,generous with money,and not revengeful.If she had borne him a child he might have cared for her.Unmarried,Leonard would never have begged;he would have flickered out and died.But the whole of life is mixed.

He had to provide for Jacky,and went down dirty paths that she might have a few feathers and dishes of food that suited her.

One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother.

He was in St.Paul's.He had entered the cathedral partly to avoid the rain and partly to see a picture that had educated him in former years.But the light was bad,the picture ill placed,and Time and Judgment were inside him now.Death alone still charmed him,with her lap of poppies,on which all men shall sleep.He took one glance,and turned aimlessly away towards a chair.Then down the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and her brother.They stood in the fairway of passengers,and their faces were extremely grave.He was perfectly certain that they were in trouble about their sister.

Once outside--and he fled immediately--he wished that he had spoken to them.What was his life?What were a few angry words,or even imprisonment?He had done wrong--that was the true terror.Whatever they might know,he would tell them everything he knew.He re-entered St.Paul's.But they had moved in his absence,and had gone to lay their difficulties before Mr.Wilcox and Charles.

The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new channels.

He desired to confess,and though the desire is proof of a weakened nature,which is about to lose the essence of human intercourse,it did not take an ignoble form.He did not suppose that confession would bring him happiness.It was rather that he yearned to get clear of the tangle.

So does the suicide yearn.The impulses are akin,and the crime of suicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.Confession need harm no one--it can satisfy that test--and though it was un-English,and ignored by our Anglican cathedral,Leonard had a right to decide upon it.

Moreover,he trusted Margaret.He wanted her hardness now.That cold,intellectual nature of hers would be just,if unkind.He would do whatever she told him,even if he had to see Helen.That was the supreme punishment she would exact.And perhaps she would tell him how Helen was.That was the supreme reward.

He knew nothing about Margaret,not even whether she was married to Mr.Wilcox,and tracking her out took several days.

That evening he toiled through the wet to Wickham Place,where the new flats were now appearing.Was he also the cause of their move?

Were they expelled from society on his account?Thence to a public library,but could find no satisfactory Schlegel in the directory.

On the morrow he searched again.He hung about outside Mr.Wilcox's office at lunch time,and,as the clerks came out said:"Excuse me,sir,but is your boss married?"Most of them stared,some said,"What's that to you?"but one,who had not yet acquired reticence,told him what he wished.Leonard could not learn the private address.That necessitated more trouble with directories and tubes.Ducie Street was not discovered till the Monday,the day that Margaret and her husband went down on their hunting expedition to Howards End.

He called at about four o'clock.The weather had changed,and the sun shone gaily on the ornamental steps--black and white marble in triangles.Leonard lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell.He felt in curious health:doors seemed to be opening and shutting inside his body,and he had been obliged to steep sitting up in bed,with his back propped against the wall.When the parlourmaid came he could not see her face;the brown rain had descended suddenly.

"Does Mrs.Wilcox live here?"he asked.

"She's out,"was the answer.

"When will she be back?"

"I'll ask,"said the parlourmaid.

Margaret had given instructions that no one who mentioned her name should ever be rebuffed.Putting the door on the chain--for Leonard's appearance demanded this--she went through to the smoking-room,which was occupied by Tibby.Tibby was asleep.

He had had a good lunch.Charles Wilcox had not yet rung him up for the distracting interview.He said drowsily:"I don't know.

Hilton.Howards End.Who is it?"

"I'll ask,sir."

"No,don't bother."

"They have taken the car to Howards End,"said the parlourmaid to Leonard.

He thanked her,and asked whereabouts that place was.

"You appear to want to know a good deal,"she remarked.

But Margaret had forbidden her to be mysterious.She told him against her better judgment that Howards End was in Hertfordshire.

"Is it a village,please?"

"Village!It's Mr.Wilcox's private house--at least,it's one of them.Mrs.Wilcox keeps her furniture there.

Hilton is the village."

"Yes.And when will they be back?"

"Mr.Schlegel doesn't know.We can't know everything,can we?"She shut him out,and went to attend to the telephone,which was ringing furiously.

He loitered away another night of agony.Confession grew more difficult.As soon as possible he went to bed.He watched a patch of moonlight cross the floor of their lodging,and,as sometimes happens when the mind is overtaxed,he fell asleep for the rest of the room,but kept awake for the patch of moonlight.Horrible!

Then began one of those disintegrating dialogues.Part of him said: