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 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
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 destestable 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
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.
