Kabanata Kabanata 25 · Evie heard of her father’s engagement when she was in for a tennis

. 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. “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, 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.