Houses 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 warned 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 post-card
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
self-control. 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 any one. 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 goose 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 civilisation
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 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 humanise, 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 some one 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 re-reading 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.
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