Howards End

  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 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 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.”

  “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 call 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. H
e 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. “Everyone 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.

  Chapter XXVI

  Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised well, and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted the rubble gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself together, and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper reaches.

  Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but the prospect from it would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The rector of the parish had dined with them last night, and she found that he was a friend of her father‘s, and so knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he would whip up the county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the county families when they did call, she was content.

  Charles and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-dresses. She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the garden. Then came a difficulty about a spring-board, and soon three people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat them, even on their own ground?

  She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day—no worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called: “Good morning, dear,” a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more.

  “Miss Wilcox is up—” the child whispered, and then became unintelligible.

  “What’s that?”

  It sounded like “—cut-yoke—sack-back—”

  “I can’t hear.”

  “—On the bed—tissue-paper—”

  Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie’s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked.

  Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment.

  Evie gasped: “Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!” Then Margaret went down to breakfast.

  Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in Margaret’s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally—orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down, there was a moment’s awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. “Burton,” called Henry, “serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!” It wasn’t genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort—the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at board-meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and “Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy victory?” one would exclaim at the close.

  After breakfast she claimed a few words with him. It was always best to approach him formally. She asked f
or the interview, because he was going on to shoot grouse tomorrow, and she was returning to Helen in town.

  “Certainly, dear,” said he. “Of course, I have the time. What do you want?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I was afraid something had gone wrong.”

  “No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk.”

  Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would set his soul in order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities, as today, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond.

  “If there is this nasty curve,” she suggested, “couldn’t we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very well go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages. ”

  “One can’t have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells wouldn’t like it; they were awfully particular at Charles’s wedding. My—she—one of our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was just round the corner, and I shouldn’t have minded; but the Colonel made a great point of it. ”