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
any one 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 civilisation, 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
womenfolk reported the scenery as nothing much. The place turned
out to be in the wrong part of Shropshire, and though he never
ran down his own property to others, 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 Celt. 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, or 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
finicking 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 travelling 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
eastward 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 handbooks 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 the women out 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 see 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. "They 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 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. "It 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, apologising 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's 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 recognised 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 windward
and smelt his cigar-smoke, for she exclaimed, "Hullo! Who's
that?"
Charles made no answer.
"Saxon or Celt?" 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.
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