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.
