Howards End (26 page)

C
HAPTER
31

H
OUSES HAVE
their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the generations of men, some with a tragic roar, some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of ghosts, while from others—and thus was the death of Wickham Place—the spirit slips before the body perishes. It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating the girls more than they knew, and causing either to accost unfamiliar regions. By September it was a corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the memories of thirty years of happiness. Through its round-topped doorway passed furniture, and pictures, and books, until the last room was gutted and the last van had rumbled away. It stood for a week or two longer, open-eyed, as if astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell. Navvies came, and spilt it back into the grey. With their muscles and their beery good temper, they were not the worst of undertakers for a house which had always been human, and had not mistaken culture for an end.

The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox having most kindly offered Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce had died abroad—an unsatisfactory affair—and as there seemed little guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, he cancelled the agreement, and resumed possession himself. Until he relet the house, the Schlegels were welcome to stack their furniture in the garage and lower rooms. Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted the offer gladly; it saved him from coming to any decision about the future. The plate and the more valuable pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk of the things went country-ways, and were entrusted to the guardianship of Miss Avery.

Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were married. They have weathered the storm, and may reasonably expect peace. To have no illusions and yet to love—what stronger surety can a woman find? She had seen her husband’s past as well as his heart. She knew her own heart with a thoroughness that commonplace people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs. Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They were married quietly—really quietly, for as the day approached she refused to go through another Oniton. Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who was out of health, presided over a few colourless refreshments. The Wilcoxes were represented by Charles, who witnessed the marriage settlement, and by Mr. Cahill. Paul did send a cablegram. In a few minutes, and without the aid of music, the clergyman made them man and wife, and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts off married couples from the world. She, a monogamist, regretted the cessation of some of life’s innocent odours; he, whose instincts were polygamous, felt morally braced by the change, and less liable to the temptations that had assailed him in the past.

They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry knew of a reliable hotel there, and Margaret hoped for a meeting with her sister. In this she was disappointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over the Brenner, and wrote an unsatisfactory postcard from the shores of the Lake of Garda, saying that her plans were uncertain and had better be ignored. Evidently she disliked meeting Henry. Two months are surely enough to accustom an outsider to a situation which a wife has accepted in two days, and Margaret had again to regret her sister’s lack of selfcontrol. In a long letter she pointed out the need of charity in sexual matters: so little is known about them; it is hard enough for those who are personally touched to judge; then how futile must be the verdict of Society. “I don’t say there is no standard, for that would destroy morality; only that there can be no standard until our impulses are classified and better understood.” Helen thanked her for her kind letter—rather a curious reply. She moved south again, and spoke of wintering in Naples.

Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. Helen left him time to grow skin over his wound. There were still moments when it pained him. Had he only known that Margaret was awaiting him—Margaret, so lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive—he would have kept himself worthier of her. Incapable of grouping the past, he confused the episode of Jacky with another episode that had taken place in the days of his bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for which he was heartily sorry, and he could not see that those oats are of a darker stock which are rooted in another’s dishonour. Unchastity and infidelity were as confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only moral teacher. Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter into his calculations at all, for poor old Ruth had never found him out.

His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her cleverness gave him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked to see her reading poetry or something about social questions; it distinguished her from the wives of other men. He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and was ready to do what he wished. Then they would argue so jollily, and once or twice she had him in quite a tight corner, but as soon as he grew really serious, she gave in. Man is for war, woman for the recreation of the warrior, but he does not dislike it if she makes a show of fight. She cannot win in a real battle, having no muscles, only nerves. Nerves make her jump out of a moving motor-car, or refuse to be married fashionably. The warrior may well allow her to triumph on such occasions; they move not the imperishable plinth of things that touch his peace.

Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the honeymoon. He told her—casually, as was his habit—that Oniton Grange was let. She showed her annoyance, and asked rather crossly why she had not been consulted.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he replied. “Besides, I have only heard for certain this morning.”

“Where are we to live?” said Margaret, trying to laugh. “I loved the place extraordinarily. Don’t you believe in having a permanent home, Henry?”

He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is home life that distinguishes us from the foreigner. But he did not believe in a damp home.

“This is news. I never heard till this minute that Oniton was damp.”

“My dear girl!”—he flung out his hand—“have you eyes? have you a skin? How could it be anything but damp in such a situation? In the first place, the Grange is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have been; then there’s that detestable little river, steaming all night like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; look up under the eaves. Ask Sir James or anyone. Those Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only possible place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my part, I think the country is too far from London, and the scenery nothing special.”

Margaret could not resist saying: “Why did you go there, then?”

“I—because—” He drew his head back and grew rather angry. “Why have we come to the Tyrol, if it comes to that? One might go on asking such questions indefinitely.”

One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer. Out it came, and he believed it as soon as it was spoken.

“The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don’t let this go any further.”

“Certainly not.”

“I shouldn’t like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn’t even wait to make proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up—just like all of your sex. Well, no harm’s done. She has had her country wedding, and I’ve got rid of my house to some fellows who are starting a preparatory school.”

“Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere.”

“I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?”

Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilization which is altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task!

“It is now what?” continued Henry. “Nearly October. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring?”

“If possible, something permanent. I can’t be as young as I was, for these alterations don’t suit me.”

“But, my dear, which would you rather have—alterations or rheumatism?”

“I see your point,” said Margaret, getting up. “If Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive.”

“What a practical little woman it is! What’s it been reading? Theo—theo—how much?”

“Theosophy.”

So Ducie Street was her first fate—a pleasant enough fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to the business, and his sandwich—a relic this of some prehistoric craving—was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanize, and several kettles of Helen’s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry’s wife, she preferred to help someone else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to “miss” new movements, and to spend her spare time rereading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power.

C
HAPTER
32

S
HE WAS
looking at plans one day in the following spring—they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build—when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced.

“Have you heard the news?” Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. “Charles is so ang—I mean he is sure you know about it, or rather, that you don’t know.”

“Why, Dolly!” said Margaret, placidly kissing her. “Here’s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?”

Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said—Charles had said—the tax-collector had said—Charles had regretted not saying—and she closed the description with: “But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst.”

“It will be very jolly,” replied Margaret.

“Are those the plans? Does it matter me seeing them?”

“Of course not.”

“Charles has never seen the plans.”

“They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor—no, that’s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line.”

“What makes it smell so funny?” said Dolly, after a moment’s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or ma?ps.

“I suppose the paper.”

“And
which
way up is it?”

“Just the ordinary way up. That’s the sky-line, and the part that smells strongest is the sky.”

“Well, ask me another. Margaret—oh—what was I going to say? How’s Helen?”

“Quite well.”

“Is she never coming back to England? Everyone thinks it’s awfully odd she doesn’t.”

“So it is,” said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. “Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months.”

“But hasn’t she any address?”

“A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you.”

“No, don’t bother. That’s eight months she has been away, surely?”

“Exactly. She left just after Evie’s wedding. It would be eight months.”

“Just when baby was born, then?”

“Just so.”

Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charleses were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathized, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the step-mother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. “Oh yes,” she cried, “that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases.”

“Why has she done that? How unnecessary!”

“Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to.”

“I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire.”

“It was far more than an air,” said Dolly solemnly. “The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don’t know.”

“Books!” cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. “Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our books?”

“Hasn’t she, though! What used to be the hall’s full of them. Charles thought for certain you knew of it.”

“I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my brother’s, and are quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the cases.”

“I say she’s dotty. She was the one that never got married, you know. Oh, I say, perhaps she thinks your books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie.”

“I hadn’t heard of that,” said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its compensations.

“Didn’t you know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned it, and then—oh, goloshes! You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote.”

“But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn’t like her to do such a heartless thing.”

“But the present was so expensive.”

“Why does that make any difference, Dolly?”

“Still, when it costs over five pounds—I didn’t see it, but it was a lovely enameled pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can’t very well accept that kind of thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?”

“You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married.”

“Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff—not worth a half-penny. Evie’s was quite different. You’d have to ask anyone to the wedding who gave you a pendant like that. Uncle Percy and Albert and Father and Charles all said it was quite impossible, and when four men agree, what is a girl to do? Evie didn’t want to upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter best, and returned the pendant straight to the shop to save Miss Avery trouble.”

“But Miss Avery said—”

Dolly’s eyes grew round. “It was a perfectly awful letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman. In the end she had the pendant back again from the shop and threw it into the duckpond.”

“Did she give any reasons?”

“We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so climb into society.”

“She’s rather old for that,” said Margaret pensively. “May not she have given the present to Evie in remembrance of her mother?”

“That’s a notion. Give everyone their due, eh? Well, I suppose I ought to be toddling. Come along, Mr. Muff—you want a new coat, but I don’t know who’ll give it you, I’m sure”; and addressing her apparel with mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room.

Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew about Miss Avery’s rudeness.

“Oh yes.”

“I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after the house.”

“But she’s only a farm woman,” said Dolly, and her explanation proved correct. Henry only censured the lower classes when it suited him. He bore with Miss Avery as with Crane—because he could get good value out of them. “I have patience with a man who knows his job,” he would say, really having patience with the job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may sound, he had something of the artist about him; he would pass over an insult to his daughter sooner than lose a good charwoman for his wife.

Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble herself. Parties were evidently ruffled. With Henry’s permission, she wrote a pleasant note to Miss Avery, asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the first convenient opportunity, she went down herself, intending to repack her belongings and store them properly in the local ware-house: the plan had been amateurish and a failure. Tibby promised to accompany her, but at the last moment begged to be excused. So, for the second time in her life, she entered the house alone.