HOWARDS END
Chapter 25
Evie heard of her father's engagement when she was in for a tennis
tournament, and her play went simply to pot. That she should marry and
leave him had seemed natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the same was
deceitful; and now Charles and Dolly said that it was all her fault. "But
I never dreamt of such a thing," she grumbled. "Dad took me to call now
and then, and made me ask her to Simpson's. Well, I'm altogether off Dad."
It was also an insult to their mother's memory; there they were agreed, and Evie
had the idea of returning Mrs. Wilcox's lace and jewellery "as a protest."
Against what it would protest she was not clear; but being only eighteen, the
idea of renunciation appealed to her, the more as she did not care for jewellery
or lace. Dolly then suggested that she and Uncle Percy should pretend to
break off their engagement, and then perhaps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss
Schlegel, and break off his; or Paul might be cabled for. But at this
point Charles told them not to talk nonsense. So Evie settled to marry as
soon as possible; it was no good hanging about with these Schlegels eyeing
her. The date of her wedding was consequently put forward from September
to August, and in the intoxication of presents she recovered much of her
good-humour.
Margaret found that she was expected to
figure at this function, and to figure largely; it would be such an opportunity,
said Henry, for her to get to know his set. Sir James Bidder would be
there, and all the Cahills and the Fussells, and his sister-in-law, Mrs.
Warrington Wilcox, had fortunately got back from her tour round the world.
Henry she loved, but his set promised to be another matter. He had not the
knack of surrounding himself with nice people--indeed, for a man of ability and
virtue his choice had been singularly unfortunate; he had no guiding principle
beyond a certain preference for mediocrity; he was content to settle one of the
greatest things in life haphazard, and so, while his investments went right, his
friends generally went wrong. She would be told, "Oh, So-and-so's a good
sort--a thundering good sort," and find, on meeting him, that he was a brute or
a bore. If Henry had shown real affection, she would have understood, for
affection explains everything. But he seemed without sentiment. The
"thundering good sort" might at any moment become "a fellow for whom I never did
have much use, and have less now," and be shaken off cheerily into
oblivion. Margaret had done the same as a schoolgirl. Now she never
forgot anyone for whom she had once cared; she connected, though the connection
might be bitter, and she hoped that some day Henry would do the
same.
Evie was not to be married from Ducie
Street. She had a fancy for something rural, and, besides, no one would be
in London then, so she left her boxes for a few weeks at Oniton Grange, and her
banns were duly published in the parish church, and for a couple of days the
little town, dreaming between the ruddy hills, was roused by the clang of our
civilization, and drew up by the roadside to let the motors pass. Oniton
had been a discovery of Mr. Wilcox's--a discovery of which he was not altogether
proud. It was up towards the Welsh border, and so difficult of access that
he had concluded it must be something special. A ruined castle stood in
the grounds. But having got there, what was one to do? The shooting
was bad, the fishing indifferent, and women-folk reported the scenery as nothing
much. The place turned out to be in the wrong part of Shropshire, damn it,
and though he never damned his own property aloud, he was only waiting to get it
off his hands, and then to let fly. Evie's marriage was its last
appearance in public. As soon as a tenant was found, it became a house for
which he never had had much use, and had less now, and, like Howards End, faded
into Limbo.
But on Margaret Oniton was destined to
make a lasting impression. She regarded it as her future home, and was
anxious to start straight with the clergy, etc., and, if possible, to see
something of the local life. It was a market-town--as tiny a one as
England possesses--and had for ages served that lonely valley, and guarded our
marches against the Kelt. In spite of the occasion, in spite of the
numbing hilarity that greeted her as soon as she got into the reserved saloon at
Paddington, her senses were awake and watching, and though Oniton was to prove
one of her innumerable false starts, she never forgot it, nor the things that
happened there.
The London party only numbered
eight--the Fussells, father and son, two Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs.
Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox and her daughter, and lastly,
the little girl, very smart and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, and who
kept a watchful eye on Margaret, the bride-elect, Dolly was absent--a domestic
event detained her at Hilton; Paul had cabled a humorous message; Charles was to
meet them with a trio of motors at Shrewsbury. Helen had refused her
invitation; Tibby had never answered his. The management was excellent, as
was to be expected with anything that Henry undertook; one was conscious of his
sensible and generous brain in the background. They were his guests as
soon as they reached the train; a special label for their luggage; a courier; a
special lunch; they had only to look pleasant and, where possible, pretty.
Margaret thought with dismay of her own nuptials--presumably under the
management of Tibby. "Mr. Theobald Schlegel and Miss Helen Schlegel
request the pleasure of Mrs. Plynlimmon's company on the occasion of the
marriage of their sister Margaret." The formula was incredible, but it
must soon be printed and sent, and though Wickham Place need not compete with
Oniton, it must feed its guests properly, and provide them with sufficient
chairs. Her wedding would either be ramshackly or bourgeois--she hoped the
latter. Such an affair as the present, staged with a deftness that was
almost beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those of her
friends.
The low rich purr of a Great Western express
is not the worst background for conversation, and the journey passed pleasantly
enough. Nothing could have exceeded the kindness of the two men.
They raised windows for some ladies, and lowered them for others, they rang the
bell for the servant, they identified the colleges as the train slipped past
Oxford, they caught books or bag-purses in the act of tumbling on to the
floor. Yet there was nothing finicky about their politeness: it had the
Public School touch, and, though sedulous, was virile. More battles than
Waterloo have been won on our playing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a charm of
which she did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the Oxford colleges were
identified wrongly. "Male and female created He them"; the journey to
Shrewsbury confirmed this questionable statement, and the long glass saloon,
that moved so easily and felt so comfortable, became a forcing-house for the
idea of sex.
At Shrewsbury came fresh air.
Margaret was all for sight-seeing, and while the others were finishing their tea
at the Raven, she annexed a motor and hurried over the astonishing city.
Her chauffeur was not the faithful Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved
making her late. Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow, was
standing in front of the hotel when they returned. It was perfectly all
right, he told her; she was by no means the last. And then he dived into
the coffee-room, and she heard him say, "For God's sake, hurry the women up; we
shall never be off," and Albert Fussell reply, "Not I; I've done my share," and
Colonel Fussell opine that the ladies were getting themselves up to kill.
Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington's daughter) appeared, and as she was his cousin,
Charles blew her up a little: she had been changing her smart traveling hat for
a smart motor hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, leading the quiet child;
the two Anglo-Indian ladies were always last. Maids, courier, heavy
luggage, had already gone on by a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, but
there were five hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to be packed, and five
dust-cloaks to be put on, and to be put off at the last moment, because Charles
declared them not necessary. The men presided over everything with
unfailing good-humour. By half-past five the party was ready, and went out
of Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge.
Shropshire had not
the reticence of Hertfordshire. Though robbed of half its magic by swift
movement, it still conveyed the sense of hills. They were nearing the
buttresses that force the Severn eastern and make it an English stream, and the
sun, sinking over the Sentinels of Wales, was straight in their eyes.
Having picked up another guest, they turned southward, avoiding the greater
mountains, but conscious of an occasional summit, rounded and mild, whose
colouring differed in quality from that of the lower earth, and whose contours
altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries were in progress behind those tossing
horizons: the West, as ever, was retreating with some secret which may not be
worth the discovery, but which no practical man will ever
discover.
They spoke of Tariff
Reform.
Mrs. Warrington was just back from the
Colonies. Like many other critics of Empire, her mouth had been stopped
with food, and she could only exclaim at the hospitality with which she had been
received, and warn the Mother Country against trifling with young Titans.
"They threaten to cut the painter," she cried, "and where shall we be
then? Miss Schlegel, you'll undertake to keep Henry sound about Tariff
Reform? It is our last hope."
Margaret
playfully confessed herself on the other side, and they began to quote from
their respective hand-books while the motor carried them deep into the
hills. Curious these were, rather than impressive, for their outlines
lacked beauty, and the pink fields--on their summits suggested the handkerchiefs
of a giant spread out to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional
wood, an occasional "forest," treeless and brown, all hinted at wildness to
follow, but the main colour was an agricultural green. The air grew
cooler; they had surmounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay below them with
its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river-girt peninsula.
Close to the castle was a grey mansion, unintellectual but kindly, stretching
with its grounds across the peninsula's neck--the sort of mansion that was built
all over England in the beginning of the last century, while architecture was
still an expression of the national character. That was the Grange,
remarked Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake on, and the
motor slowed down and stopped. "I'm sorry," said he, turning round.
"Do you mind getting out--by the door on the right? Steady
on!"
"What's happened?" asked Mrs.
Warrington.
Then the car behind them drew up, and the
voice of Charles was heard saying: "Get out the women at once." There was a
concourse of males, and Margaret and her companions were hustled out and
received into the second car. What had happened? As it started off
again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly at
them.
"What is it?" the ladies
cried.
Charles drove them a hundred yards without
speaking. Then he said: "It's all right. Your car just touched a
dog."
"But stop!" cried Margaret,
horrified.
"It didn't hurt
him."
"Didn't really hurt him?" asked
Myra.
"No."
"Do
please stop!" said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up
in the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. "I want
to go back, please."
Charles took no
notice.
"We've left Mr. Fussell behind," said
another; "and Angelo, and Crane."
"Yes, but no
woman."
"I expect a little of"--Mrs. Warrington
scratched her palm--" will be more to the point than one of
us!"
"The insurance company sees to that," remarked
Charles, "and Albert will do the talking."
"I want to
go back, though, I say!" repeated Margaret, getting
angry.
Charles took no notice. The motor,
loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The
men are there," chorused the others. "Men will see to
it."
"The men can't see to it. Oh,
this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to
stop."
"Stopping's no good," drawled
Charles.
"Isn't it?" said Margaret, and jumped
straight out of the car.
She fell on her knees, cut
her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her.
"You've hurt yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after
her.
"Of course I've hurt myself!" she
retorted.
"May I ask
what--"
"There's nothing to ask," said
Margaret.
"Your hand's
bleeding."
"I know."
"I'm
in for a frightful row from the pater."
"You should
have thought of that sooner, Charles."
Charles had
never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who was
hobbling away from him, and the sight was too strange to leave any room for
anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them up: their sort he
understood. He commanded them to go
back.
Albert Fussell was seen walking towards
them.
"It's all right!" he called. "It wasn't a
dog, it was a cat."
"There!" exclaimed Charles
triumphantly. "It's only a rotten cat.
"Got
room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn't a dog;
the chauffeurs are tackling the girl." But Margaret walked forward
steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies
sheltering behind men, men sheltering behind servants--the whole system's wrong,
and she must challenge it.
"Miss Schlegel! 'Pon
my word, you've hurt your hand."
"I'm just going to
see," said Margaret. "Don't you wait, Mr.
Fussell."
The second motor came round the
corner. "lt is all right, madam," said Crane in his turn. He had
taken to calling her madam.
"What's all right?
The cat?"
"Yes, madam. The girl will receive
compensation for it."
"She was a very ruda girla,"
said Angelo from the third motor
thoughtfully.
"Wouldn't you have been
rude?"
The Italian spread out his hands, implying
that he had not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased
her. The situation became absurd. The gentlemen were again buzzing
round Miss Schlegel with offers of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up
her hand. She yielded, apologizing slightly, and was led back to the car,
and soon the landscape resumed its motion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the
castle swelled on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she
had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole journey from London had
been unreal. They had no part with the earth and its emotions. They
were dust, and a stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had
been killed had lived more deeply than they.
"Oh,
Henry," she exclaimed, "I have been so naughty," for she had decided to take up
this line. "We ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but
I would, and look!" She held out her bandaged hand. "Your poor Meg
went such a flop."
Mr. Wilcox looked
bewildered. In evening dress, he was standing to welcome his guests in the
hall.
"Thinking it was a dog," added Mrs.
Warrington.
"Ah, a dog's a companion!" said Colonel
Fussell. "A dog'll remember you."
"Have you
hurt yourself, Margaret?"
"Not to speak about; and
it's my left hand."
"Well, hurry up and
change."
She obeyed, as did the others. Mr.
Wilcox then turned to his son.
"Now, Charles, what's
happened?"
Charles was absolutely honest. He
described what he believed to have happened. Albert had flattened out a
cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her nerve, as any woman might. She had
been got safely into the other car, but when it was in motion had leapt
out--again, in spite of all that they could say. After walking a little on
the road, she had calmed down and had said that she was sorry. His father
accepted this explanation, and neither knew that Margaret had artfully prepared
the way for it. It fitted in too well with their view of feminine
nature. In the smoking-room, after dinner, the Colonel put forward the
view that Miss Schlegel had jumped it out of devilry. Well he remembered
as a young man, in the harbour of Gibraltar once, how a girl--a handsome girl,
too--had jumped overboard for a bet. He could see her now, and all the
lads overboard after her. But Charles and Mr. Wilcox agreed it was much
more probably nerves in Miss Schlegel's case. Charles was depressed.
That woman had a tongue. She would bring worse disgrace on his father
before she had done with them. He strolled out on to the castle mound to
think the matter over. The evening was exquisite. On three sides of
him a little river whispered, full of messages from the west; above his head the
ruins made patterns against the sky. He carefully reviewed their dealings
with this family, until he fitted Helen, and Margaret, and Aunt Juley into an
orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him suspicious. He had two
children to look after, and more coming, and day by day they seemed less likely
to grow up rich men. "It is all very well," he reflected, "the pater
saying that he will be just to all, but one can't be just indefinitely.
Money isn't elastic. What's to happen if Evie has a family? And,
come to that, so may the pater. There'll not be enough to go round, for
there's none coming in, either through Dolly or Percy. It's
damnable!" He looked enviously at the Grange, whose windows poured light
and laughter. First and last, this wedding would cost a pretty
penny. Two ladies were strolling up and down the garden terrace, and as
the syllables "Imperialism" were wafted to his ears, he guessed that one of them
was his aunt. She might have helped him, if she too had not had a family
to provide for. "Every one for himself," he repeated--a maxim which had
cheered him in the past, but which rang grimly enough among the ruins of
Oniton. He lacked his father's ability in business, and so had an ever
higher regard for money; unless he could inherit plenty, he feared to leave his
children poor.
As he sat thinking, one of the ladies
left the terrace and walked into the meadow; he recognized her as Margaret by
the white bandage that gleamed on her arm, and put out his cigar, lest the gleam
should betray him. She climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times
stooped down, as if she was stroking the turf. It sounds absolutely
incredible, but for a moment Charles thought that she was in love with him, and
had come out to tempt him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are indeed
the strong man's necessary complement, and having no sense of humour, he could
not purge himself of the thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged to
his father, and his sister's wedding-guest, kept on her way without noticing
him, and he admitted that he had wronged her on this point. But what was
she doing? Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and catching her
dress in brambles and burrs? As she edged round the keep, she must have
got to leeward and smelt his cigar-smoke, for she exclaimed, "Hullo! Who's
that?"
Charles made no
answer.
"Saxon or Kelt?" she continued, laughing in
the darkness. "But it doesn't matter. Whichever you are, you will
have to listen to me. I love this place. I love Shropshire. I
hate London. I am glad that this will be my home. Ah, dear"--she was
now moving back towards the house--"what a comfort to have
arrived!"
"That woman means mischief," thought
Charles, and compressed his lips. In a few minutes he followed her
indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were rising from the river,
and presently it became invisible, though it whispered more loudly. There
had been a heavy downpour in the Welsh hills.